


needle and thread

by jdphoenix



Series: needle and thread [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Post-Episode: s02e10 What They Become, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:11:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 52,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5174102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I told you, if he dies-”</p><p>“Yes, yes. I die too.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Caribbean

Grant’s more or less settled on an escape plan when every guard in the room snaps to attention. (This is not helping the plan.) Whitehall saunters in, apparently feeling that a second round of mockery is in order. Which Grant gets - it’s fun to remind people how much power you have over them - but he can’t exactly do anything while Whitehall’s presence has the guards on alert.

He observes with mild interest as Whitehall taunts Skye’s psycho dad. The two of them have history and it shows. Seriously, if there was a little more give in those cuffs, Grant expects Cal would be ripping Whitehall’s throat out with his _teeth_.

After spending a few minutes on Cal, Whitehall moves on to Skye. Blah blah he’s gonna cut her up like he did her mom blah blah. Grant’s not about to let that happen, but he’s not stupid enough to let it make him sloppy. Bad enough he let his feelings show earlier and got himself stuck here, he’s not making _that_ mistake again.

Whitehall’s eyes slide to him next and Grant lets every bit of his boredom show.

“Don’t worry. Unlike them, you’ll live. HYDRA doesn’t let its agents go easily.”

Oh yay. Brainwashing. Now Grant is _extra_ eager to get the hell out of here. From the corner of his eye, he notes 33 entering and hopes that means Whitehall’s gonna _leave already_ so this breakout can start.

“Speaking of,” Whitehall says, smiling as he sees 33.

“No,” Skye breathes, and Grant realizes maybe he should’ve been paying more attention. 33’s not alone. Her hand is tight around Simmons’ upper arm and, though Grant can’t see from this angle, the way Simmons is holding her shoulders probably means she’s been cuffed too. She’s also been beaten.

She flinches when Whitehall cups her face in his hands - not surprising with the way her jaw is purpling. Almost reverently, he touches each of her visible injuries. That proud tip of her chin never wavers. Her eyes never move from the spot just over his shoulder. In most cases that show of strength would be a good thing, but not here. Whitehall _likes_ his victims strong. He’s practically salivating already thinking of how he’s gonna break her.

“I think we’ll be keeping Miss Simmons close,” he says. “Wouldn’t want her losing her way again, would we?”

33 doesn’t return the smile he throws her way, but her grip tightens so much that Simmons winces. The three leave together and it’s not even a relief anymore because now Grant’s gotta save Skye _and_ Simmons. Perfect.

He gives it a few minutes, which turns out to be a good thing because Cal is a great distraction. The guy makes Grant think of the berserker staff and it’s kind of frightening to see all that coming to light without alien help. Still, it saves him the trouble of stepping into the line of fire himself, so he’s glad for it.

He frees himself (easy, he was practically free the second they cuffed him) and grabs a gun from one of the guys Cal took out. The hallway’s clear, whether because it always was or because everyone out there was smart enough to run from the escaped maniac, Grant doesn’t much care. What he does care about is getting Skye to safety.

“We’re clear,” he says, “we can-”

He hears the gunshots, feels the force of the impact. For a brief second he thinks one of the men is still breathing, but then he sees Skye behind the gun. Three shots to the chest and he’s down. Distantly, he wonders if maybe he’d be able to move still if he wasn’t swimming through shock.

She delivers some nasty line about his teaching, but he barely hears it, barely even sees her go except that his training’s too good to let a threat pass without making note of it. He’s safe, with her gone.

Except he’s not. He’s been _shot_. He’s in the middle of a war between two groups of people who hate him and the woman he’s spent the last six months of his life fighting for just shot him.

He remembers the last time they were on the Bus together, her giving up the hard drive to save his life. He thought then that she loved him, that her feelings for him would overcome all the lies he’d had to tell her. And now she’s shot him. Skye, who couldn’t even find the safety on a gun, has left him for dead.

He has to keep up pressure. He knows that. He’s drifting though. Badly. He can’t quite keep his thoughts straight and he thinks not all the pain in his chest is from the bullets.

If this is what heartbreak feels like, he kind of feels bad for all the times he made a mark fall for him.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

33 comes back. Whitehall’s dead, she says, and Grant’s distantly relieved that Simmons should be safe. He promises to help 33 find herself again. She’s lost and alone and he can practically see her attach herself to him. He tries his best not to scream when she moves him.

He blacks out once or twice, and every time he comes awake again his stomach sinks because they’re _still moving_. All he wants to do is stay still, possibly die.

No. He doesn’t want to die. He wants to _live_. He’ll dig up the entire Guest House with his bare hands if that’s what it takes. He’s not going down like this.

He comes back to consciousness with a gasp and that’s a mistake. His lungs and ribs scream. But pain is good. Pain means he’s still breathing. Even if it hurts to.

There is some relief to be had though. They’re still moving, but Grant doesn’t have to participate anymore. He’s flat on his back, a low ceiling overhead. There are narrow stairs leading up just past his feet and light streaming in. A small watercolor of a sailboat decorates the narrow strip of wall between the stairs and a kitchenette. The whole room rocks gently. He’s on a boat.

He feels for his side. His tac vest is gone, but while he’s no longer wearing his shirt, he suspects its remains are what’s wrapped around his middle.

“Don’t,” a tight, hoarse voice says. He almost doesn’t recognize it as Simmons’. She’s curled up in the corner, on a bench opposite the one he’s laying on. The bruise on her jaw looks twice as bad as before, which is saying a lot since she’s keeping to the shadows. Her eyes are fixed on him like an animal watching a predator. Her throat works and he can practically hear her listing off all the injuries he’s gotten himself, just like old times, but either she’s determined not to fall back into old habits or that jaw really hurts, because she only repeats, “Don’t,” and hugs her arms a little tighter around herself.

The pain in his chest grows with each breath he takes, radiating out through his bones. He can still feel the force of the bullets, can still see Skye’s expression as she walked over him. Careless. He wasn’t even worth a bullet to the head.

He pastes on a smile. “What happened to killing me?”

A shadow falls over the stairs. 33. “I told her if you died, she died.” She smiles slightly at the sight of him and kneels by his side. Her hand hovers over the makeshift bandage, and behind her Simmons takes a breath as if to speak. Grant uses his opposite arm to grab 33’s hand out of the air.

“Thank you,” he says, injecting sincerity into his tone. “Both of you,” he adds, nodding to Simmons. She looks away.

His chest is glad when he relaxes back against the stiff pillow. He suspects, from how hard it is under his head, that it’s meant to be decorative.

“Where are we?” he asks, breathing a little easier now.

“About two hundred miles north-northwest of San Juan. International waters.”

“SHIELD?” he asks. With Whitehall dead, HYDRA’s not much threat. They’ll all be scrambling, looking for a new head to swear allegiance to.

33 shakes her head. “They’ll be too busy with whatever happened underground.”

Grant twists his head to one side so he can better see Simmons around 33. “I think they’ll find reason to focus.” Coulson might let Grant walk. He was shot three times - central mass, at close range - he should have died. But Simmons? Coulson had a second mole inside his enemy’s stronghold _just_ to get her out safely. If he thinks she’s still alive and being held prisoner, he won’t stop hunting until he finds her.

“We headed anywhere?” he asks.

33 shifts uncomfortably. Not surprising. She’s been conditioned to follow orders, not make her own decisions. Getting them this far must’ve been a hell of a stretch and now that he’s awake, she’s reached her limit.

Grant tries to think through the steady pain in his chest. Painkillers are high on his list of priorities.

“North,” he says. “Can you get us to Charleston?”

She nods hurriedly.

“How long?” Grant presses, the pain in his side dragging at him.

She worries her lip, considering. “Not until tomorrow. The current’s with us, so before dawn if we’re lucky.”

“Good.” He can last that long, and it’ll give them some cover. He’s got a safe house about fifty miles inland from there. They’ll be able to pick up supplies along the way.

The plan in place, she hurries upstairs to set course. Once she’s gone, Grant closes his eyes against the light. He lets his guard down, allowing his body to show its hurts, and takes to short, shallow breaths to avoid jarring his wounds too badly.

“I haven’t forgotten about you,” he says. Simmons doesn’t respond. Ditching her is gonna be tough, but he can’t do that until he’s in better shape. He needs her to keep him alive for now, but he also needs to be able to run far and fast once he cuts her loose.

“Check the fridge,” he says, his voice thick as his body drags him back down to sleep, “see if there’re any peas or something for that jaw.”

It doesn’t occur to him until he’s already half asleep that the problem she poses is easily solved with a single bullet. He pushes the idea away.

 


	2. Miami (1)

Grant takes a turn before dawn comes. He only knows because when his back hits rough wood, he can’t remember leaving the boat. The sky is dark overhead, there’s salt in his lungs, and his ears are full of gunfire.

Years of training have him trying to move. He feels like a pill bug, caught on his back while some cruel kids laugh at him. A warm body shields his and he recognizes the press of the hands on his shoulders. He tries to lift an arm around Simmons, to hold her down, to roll them over so he can protect her, but pain spikes in his side before his arm can do more than lift off the weather-worn planks.

“Stop! Stop this!” Simmons moves off him, towards the gunfire, and he makes a low, animal sound of protest. His body moves after her on instinct and the effort sends him back into darkness. The pain stays.

It’s all the time, whether he’s awake or asleep, and he can’t tell the difference between dream and reality. He hears snippets of conversations held in shifting languages, voices he’s not sure he recognizes.

“What’s wrong with him?” a voice he definitely doesn’t know asks.

“He’s been shot three times, had major surgery _on a boat_ , and has a fever, likely due to infection from the shoddy medical supplies available on said boat. What _isn’t_ wrong?”

He smiles through the pain. He knows that voice. He can’t quite open his eyes, but he can tell it’s light out now. That or he’s inside, under bright lights. Maybe both.

“I told you,” yet another voice says, “if he dies-”

“Yes, yes. I die too.”

Something brushes against his good arm and it falls off the narrow surface he’s balanced on. Someone huffs and puts it firmly back in place.

“Must you always be so _big_?”

There’s a joke there, but his throat won’t work to make it.

Something sharp pricks his arm and the pain fades along with his consciousness.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Something lifts off his forehead - a cloth, he thinks - and warmth immediately replaces it. He cringes at the heat, hot and sticky and everywhere. Music’s playing, twisting in his gut. Loud. Spanish. Something about her never loving him anyway.

Skye.

Cool fingers replace the cloth, soothing away the lines on his forehead. He lets himself dream they’re hers, that she’s sorry for doing this to him. It’s a good dream.

“Turn the radio off. He hates to hear music when he’s feeling ill.”

The radio clicks obediently off and Grant sighs back into sleep.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You made a deal with a gang,” Grant says dryly. There are a lot of words he could emphasize in that sentence, but none of them seem quite adequate so he just lays it out.

Simmons purses her lips in a way that says she’s no happier about this turn of events than he is.

Apparently while he was fighting off a fever, a storm blew them off course and landed them in Miami. With him in such bad shape and the ship running low on fuel, they landed, only to find themselves in the middle of a black market arms trade. 33 managed to shoot one of the gang members and Simmons offered to trade medical care for their lives.

The irony isn’t lost on him. That now his and 33’s survival is dependent on the survival of the man on the cot next to Grant’s.

“He gonna make it?” he asks, looking to the sleeping man.

“Oh yes, he’s quite healthy. The leg will need some more time to heal properly, but at the moment he’s mostly staying here to avoid his teething child.”

The man cracks one eye to give Simmons a sour look, but Grant sees the fondness there. He can relate. She’s definitely his favorite psuedo-doctor to wake up to.

He glances to the guard at the door and the gun resting across his knees. “Where’s 33?”

Simmons lifts her chin to indicate somewhere behind his head. “Sleeping. She refuses to let you out of her eye line. You must have made an impression.” There’s a disapproving twist to her words.

Grant wants to laugh. The two of them know she disapproves of him - probably thinks he shouldn’t be able to make friends after what happened to his last ones - but the other two men in the room don’t. The guy at the door has definitely perked up, probably hoping for some juicy drama to entertain him through his shift.

“I promised her I’d help fix her,” he says, just to see how Simmons will take it.

She’s surprised for sure and he watches her try to reconcile her recent view of him with a man who’d offer to help a brainwashed woman find herself again. He doesn’t tell her he was bleeding out at the time and would’ve promised her his first born if it meant she’d drag him out of there.

She turns her attention to peeling off his bandages (real ones now), and he reaches for her cheek. They’ve been here a few days by now so he missed the worst of it, but it’s still a nasty yellow. She stills under his touch, even her breath catching in her throat.

“I would’ve gotten you out,” he says.

She scoffs and her fingers continue their inspection.

“I would have,” he insists. He thumbs the pale scar at the edge of her eyebrow. “I promised Skye I’d get her to her father, didn’t I?” Thoughts of Skye turn his stomach (or maybe that’s Simmons’ fingers at the edge of his wound) but he keeps his expression friendly.

“Did you even ask if she _wanted_ to meet him?” she demands, suddenly heated. “Skye told me what little Coulson was able to dig up about her parents. They weren’t exactly good people.”

“Good is a relative term.”

“No. It’s not. You _kidnapped_ her and handed her over to a sadist.”

Grant’s not up for an argument over his methods (it’s not his fault Skye’s dad got all possessive and teamed up with HYDRA just to piss off Coulson), so he backtracks instead. “Are you saying you’d rather I left _you_ with the sadist?”

“You didn’t get me away from Whitehall at all. Coulson did when he shot him.”

Well that’s interesting. Grant wonders how 33 feels about that. And, while he’s at it, how Simmons feels about being left behind.

“You were there?” he asks, letting his curiosity show. “And he didn’t rescue you?”

She replaces the bandage. “ _Skye’s father_ chased him off,” she says in a way that implies that’s somehow his fault too. “Apparently he felt _he_ deserved to kill Whitehall.”

“The guy did cut his wife into tiny pieces. Who else if not him?”

Simmons’ eyes move behind him and her expression softens. “Agent 33. What he must have done to her…” She shakes her head and stands to check on her other patient.

Grant wonders how much of that concern is genuine and how much is fear of the same happening to her.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The day Grant’s neighbor is deemed fully healed, Simmons is asked to see to a patient in another part of the building. Grant has her adjust his cot before she goes so he’s sitting up and makes sure to send 33 with her. And then, he waits. It doesn’t take long before a smiling man saunters through the door. He’s tall, broad shouldered, and absolutely in charge of things around here.

“I thought we should meet,” he says. “Officially.” He takes the chair Simmons frequents and offers his hand, giving Grant a good view of the tattoo on his forearm. It’s the symbol of Las Rojas, a gang with branches in several Central American countries. If this guy’s leading the Miami chapter, he must be a real hard ass. “Martinez,” he says.

“Ward,” Grant says, returning the handshake firmly but respectfully.

“You have lovely friends, Mr. Ward - well, the one. The other _was_ , I’m certain. So sad.”

Grant smiles at the feigned sympathy. “Thank you,” he says with equally feigned sincerity, “for your hospitality. We appreciate it.”

“I am certain you do, seeing as my hospitality is the only reason you are alive now. My question to you, Mr. Ward, is whether or not I’m likely to regret extending it.”

Grant wrinkles his brow in confusion. “What would you have to regret?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps if whoever did _that_ -” he points with his laced fingers to Grant’s side- “should come looking for you, they will be disappointed to find you still breathing.”

Grant doesn’t quite manage to keep the tremor of … (anger, self-pity, loneliness) of _something_ off his face. “They won’t.”

“And if they do?” Martinez presses coolly.

“We’ll handle it.”

Martinez raises a brow. “‘We’? You do not seem in any shape to handle anything, and I certainly hope you don’t mean to include my men in that statement.”

Grant grins. “You’ve seen one of my people handle a weapon. We’re not exactly defenseless. And,” Grant adds, figuring he might as well get around to it, “you’re not losing out on the deal. I’m willing to bet Simmons is a hell of a lot better than whoever you’ve had patching your people up.”

Martinez nods slowly, considering. “Yes. She certainly is. Prettier too. Worth the price of caring for you to be sure. But, I have noticed, she does not seem to be with you entirely willingly. Before you woke up, she tried to steal Lucio’s cell phone.”

That’s a disappointment, but not an unexpected one. He’s actually been thinking she was going along too easily. He supposes it was too much to hope she’s been softening towards him.

He shrugs, careless. “She’s an old friend, doesn’t much like who I’ve been hanging around with lately, but I needed a medic and she was the only one available.”

“There were marks, when she came to us, on her wrists. They appeared to be from handcuffs.” It’s not an accusation - but it’s not _not_ an accusation either.

“I’m sure, in your line of work, you’ve had to restrain a friend a time or two. To keep them from getting into trouble, of course.”

Martinez smiles. “Of course. I only wonder how much this friend is worth to you, Mr. Ward. Perhaps she is more trouble than she is worth, perhaps you will no longer have reason to keep her close once you are well.” He rises from the chair. “Something to think about,” he says, and leaves without another word.

Grant’s on edge until Simmons and 33 return.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Orders - clear cut and firm - are the last thing 33 needs right now. Grant gives her some anyway.

“Protect Simmons.”

“I am,” she says.

“I know,” Grant says, eying the guard at the door to make sure he can’t hear. “But I don’t just mean keep her from running off, I want you to-”

“Protect her from Las Rojas,” 33 says softly. “I am.”

Grant’s relief is overshadowed by his surprise. “You did it on your own?”

She lifts one shoulder uncomfortably, her eyes darting to the cot Simmons is resting on. “If they hurt her, there won’t be anyone to help you. And-”

“And?” Grant presses.

“She’s nice. I think.” She frowns in a way that’s so unlike May it’s almost funny. “Can you be nice by being mean?”

Simmons would probably say no, but Grant has plenty of experience doing just that. “Yeah. Why? Has she been mean to you?” It’s hard to picture Simmons being mean to someone. Even when she was forced to give Quinn a once-over after they grabbed him, she wasn’t cruel about it. Cold and dismissive, yeah, but that probably had more to do with wanting to get back to Skye.

“No,” 33 is quick to say. “Maybe?” She looks lost, confused, but Grant has no idea how to help her, so he waits. She fingers the hem of her shirt and looks down at it like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “She made me pick my own clothes.”

Grant smiles at the pastel button-down. Of _course_ Simmons made her pick her own clothes. It’s a good first step for someone who’s trying to take back control of their own life.

33’s watching him intently when he finally meets her eyes again. “I won’t let them hurt her,” she promises.

“Good.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The day Simmons deems Grant well enough to move around freely, Martinez asks to see him.

“You shouldn’t be up for long,” Simmons says, her eyes sharp on his shirt. He walked down one flight of stairs and she’s looking for signs of bleeding through. He wonders if she’s forgotten she hates him.

She _eep_ s when they turn into Martinez’ office and find him, plus a couple of his biggest men up ahead. The sound probably has less to do with the men and more to do with 33 pulling her back. Grant keeps on going like he hasn’t noticed.

“You wanted to talk?” he asks.

“No,” Martinez says coolly. There must be some secret signal passed between him and the men because one of them pulls a large duffel off the ground and sets it on the old, water stained desk. Martinez opens it, revealing a mess of clothes and, under them, a pair of handguns and some cash. “The weapons you came here with and enough money to pay for the doctor’s services.”

The words are heavy enough to make it clear these are future services he’s paying for. The men are here to remind Grant he doesn’t have to. Martinez could much more easily shoot him and 33, then keep Simmons free of charge. Maybe he doesn’t want to bother with the mess of a couple bodies. Maybe he’s hoping to make a friend. Hell, maybe he’s just afraid Simmons will lose it. Doesn’t much matter. He’s in no shape to fight and 33 is still an unknown variable. The only way Grant wins this is to give him what he wants.

He zips up the bag and slings it over his good shoulder. Behind him, Simmons makes a noise of disapproval.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Grant says.

“And you. I hope the rest of your trip is less eventful.”

Grant chuckles. “Better be, right?” He turns and meets 33’s eyes. “We’re leaving.”

33’s hand convulses on Simmons’ arm. She looks betrayed, but there’s none of the fury May showed when Grant fought her earlier this year. 33 is all hurt and loss and disappointment. Her hand falls away.

Simmons finally catches on that something’s amiss, but Grant stops her babbling with a hand on her shoulder.

“You’re too valuable to let go, Simmons.” He squeezes tight enough to make her lips thin in pain. “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll be taken care of.”

“You _bastard_ ,” she breathes. As he steps around her to follow 33, he feels Martinez’ men move in to keep her from trying to leave with them. “You bloody son of a bitch! Coulson is going to-”

“Coulson thinks Skye killed me in San Juan,” Grant says, turning in the door to give her a farewell smile. It’s forced. Saying her name makes the pain in his chest spike, but that makes it easier to turn his smile mocking. “He’s not coming for me.” He tips his head over her head to meet Martinez’ eyes. “Keep her away from any phones, will you? Girl’s got friends in high places.”

Martinez nods his thanks and turns his attention to Simmons, who’s being dragged closer to the desk. Grant forces himself to walk away.

 

 


	3. Miami (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive apologies for the lateness of this chapter. I would promise to be better, but I'd rather not risk lying.

It’s hard to tell what with her being a brainwashed drone and all, but Grant’s pretty sure 33 is giving him the silent treatment - for the ten blocks they walk to the nearest car park, while Grant hotwires a piece of junk the owner should be grateful they’re taking, the whole time he drives in circles to make sure they’re not being tailed - she is just stone cold silent.

“You have something to say, this is your chance,” he says, finally having enough.

The A/C in this thing is shot, but he swears the temperature drops ten degrees when they pass the sign for the 95 north.

“She saved your life.”

“She also promised to kill me. She ever tell you that?” He hasn’t forgotten her little show when he was being led out in chains. It chilled him, more than Fitz trying to end his life. He’d backed off after he got it out of his system, but that cold determination in every line of Simmons’ body? He never thought he’d see that in her.

“I told her she’d be safe if she saved you.”

Grant really doubts that was part of the deal, no matter how generous 33’s feeling now.

33 looks at her hands in her lap. “You sold her to them.”

He spins the wheel to the right, bringing them to a stop so fast the car nearly tips over the curb. He turns off the engine and unbuckles his belt so he can turn to face her. “You wanted me to help you, right? That’s why you saved my life in San Juan?”

She nods her head jerkily.

“Then here’s lesson one about how the real world works: sometimes people lie.”

He grabs the duffel from the back and pulls out one of the guns before shoving the bag into 33’s lap. “You know how to hotwire a car?”

She nods.

“Good. Get us one with air that works and park it a couple blocks from Martinez’ place. Behind that laundromat we passed, okay?”

33 grabs his wrist before he can climb out. “What are you doing?”

He grins at her. “I’m gonna start a gang war.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Assuming this works and he gets her out of this alive, he really will have to thank Simmons for remembering he hates hearing music when he’s sick. If that radio had stayed on, he never would’ve heard Martinez’ men talking on the floor below and he wouldn’t know the reason they were so trigger-happy at the docks that night was that they weren’t receiving a shipment of guns, they were _stealing_ one. From the Russians.

Grant is all smiles while he informs the _maitre d’_ just who he wants to see. Well, not exactly. He couldn’t get a name from listening in, but he does know this is the restaurant the Russians operate out of and it’s not hard to convince anyone you’re serious when you’ve got a .45 sticking out the back of your jeans.

The gun is taken from him as he’s led to the back, but he doesn’t mind. These are his people. Lowlifes and criminals, but the kind who live well doing it.

“I assume you didn’t come to kill me,” Anton - that’s the guy’s name, Grant might actually have heard that one - says. He’s got at least a decade on Martinez, but has that same oily smile thing going. He’s also holding Grant’s gun and examining it the way only a gun runner does.

“I thought we might be able to help each other, actually.” He uses his left arm to take the empty water glass from the place setting in front of him and holds it up, waiting patiently. Anton gestures and a waitress appears a moment later. “Thanks,” Grant says. “Hot out there.”

The downside of enjoying being a little shit is that people get tired of it real fast.

“If you’ve only come to impose on my hospitality-”

Grant sets down the glass carefully. “Las Rojas stole your arms shipment last month. Martinez is sitting pretty on the money he made selling the guns.”

Anton’s eyes narrow. “And how do you know this?”

Grant hisses in a breath. “Martinez and I had a- let’s call it an encounter that same night.” He shifts to his left and pulls up his shirt. “We were having a perfectly civil discussion about maintenance costs and all of a sudden he decides he’s too important to deal with me anymore.”

“So you come to me seeking revenge?”

“Now, do I look that stupid? I’m offering _you_ revenge. Son of a bitch also took my private medic; I guess he figured I didn’t need her anymore. She got her hands on a phone and called me with his location yesterday. So if you wanna nail him…” Grant holds his hands wide.

It’s not that easy, but the bullet holes in Grant’s chest help sell the story. Doesn’t hurt that Anton _really_ wants that revenge.

For maximum effect, they’ll wait until early morning. Late enough Martinez and his men will be sleeping off whatever shit they spent the night pulling and early enough the Russians’ traffic will be mistaken for the pre-dawn risers who spend their days cutting rich people’s lawns.

Grant spends the day cuffed, attached to a big guy named Sven who comes off like he speaks maybe seven words of English and twenty in his native Russian. It’s kind of insulting, really, and Grant tells Sven so.

“Gotta suck, you being stuck with me. Don’t have your full range of motion, can’t move fast in a fight.”

Sven takes the front of Grant’s shirt in his meaty fist and lifts him clean off the floor. “Have personal, man-sized tool to bludgeon people with. Also shield, for absorbing bullets. Is good.”

Greeeeeat.

There’ll be plenty of opportunity for it too. The plan is messy. Explosions for distraction. Lots of men in. Carnage. Death. Screaming.

Anton is _pissed_ and doesn’t care how many of his own men he has to throw at Martinez, so long as in the end he’s dealt the other man a crippling blow. Grant feels kind of bad, honestly. He’s been one of the disposable many - hell, he was one of the disposable few when he and Fitz went into South Ossetia - but he doesn’t feel one iota of sympathy for that bastard Martinez. The guy fucking _bought_ Simmons off him. If he gets the opportunity, Grant’s gonna put a bullet in his brain himself and Anton can suck it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s pitch black out when Grant and Sven climb into the back of a semi’s trailer with about thirty other guys. In the close quarters, it’s easy to pick up a few weapons to supplement his returned pistol - which, for the record, is a helluva lot lighter than it was when it was taken from him.

Adrenaline’s high and everyone’s more than a little antsy when the wheels shriek under them with an air of finality.

“Here we go, boys!” one of the men says eagerly. Grant moves incrementally closer to Sven, not wanting to start things out by being dragged behind.

There’s a conversation happening outside, muffled Spanish filtering through the metal walls of the trailer. It’s drowned out by the first explosion. The bodies around Grant surge for the doors while outside someone pulls frantically at the lock. There’s a second explosion, a third, and-

That last one is followed immediately by another, this one bigger than any of the rest and strong enough to shake the trailer.

More than one man curses inventively in Russian.

Grant’s thinking that wasn’t part of the plan.

The doors swing open and everyone’s moving, rushing out onto the street, gunning down the crowds of men already fleeing Martinez’ base of operations. Grant catches a glimpse of the driver, still standing at the trailer doors and staring, dumbstruck, at the thick cloud of black smoke rolling from the windows.

Sven is true to his word, dragging Grant along like he weighs no more than a child’s toy and throwing him up between him and armed attackers. Grant learns quick to spot dangers before Sven does and silently thanks the men from the truck for their unknowing gifts of enough ammo to keep Grant alive.

Sven is clearly starving for a good fight and pulls them easily through the tangle of men to the building itself. No one’s trying to get out anymore - at least not through the front. They’re all taking cover in the narrow main hall, trying to bottleneck the invaders. Sven throws his left arm up and Grant along with it. Grant was expecting it and uses the momentum to throw the both of them into the first room on the right. They crash into one of Martinez’ men and in the scuffle Grant gets his pistol under Sven’s chin.

Goodbye, Sven.

“Ah ah,” Grant says, sweeping his arm around and catching the other man halfway to his fallen shotgun. Julio is his name; Grant recognizes him from the guard rotation keeping an eye on him. “Don’t even think about it,” he says in Spanish.

“Fuckin’ gringo,” Julio mutters.

“Yeah yeah, but I’m the gringo who just saved your ass from _this_ ass, so maybe be a little grateful.”

It’s awkward, breaking Sven’s thumb while they’re handcuffed together, but it’s better than breaking his own. Julio winces and watches him slide the cuff over Sven’s twisted hand with obvious disgust. Good. Maybe if he’s freaked out enough, he won’t put up too much of a fight.

“Now, I’m willing to let you walk away from this if you just tell me one little thing.”

Julio is not smart, as evidenced by the dive he makes for the shotgun. Grant gets on his feet while the idiot is still scrambling across the floor and a few kicks to the ribs do a good job of stopping his fighting.

Grant aims the gun at his head. “My friend. You’ll remember her; she probably got into a screaming match with Martinez yesterday?” Because Simmons has approximately _zero_ self-preservation instincts. “Where is she?”

“I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’,” the little shit spits out.

Grant takes a step back and aims the pistol at Julio’s crotch.

Julio sighs. His decision’s already made but he takes a minute to just be pissed about having to give up the intel. Outside the room more of Anton’s men are streaming into the building. The few that bother glancing this way only see a brown guy on the floor and a white guy standing over him, they don’t care beyond that. That probably won’t last though - eventually someone will recognize Grant - so they need to move this along.

He sends a bullet into the floor between Julio’s legs.

“Okay! Okay! Jeez. He’s keeping her on the second floor - a room at the back.”

“Was that so hard?” Grant asks, and kicks him in the head to knock him out. Then he heads for the back.

It’s not too bad a trip. Even when he gets deeper in, past the skirmishes between Anton and Martinez' men, most of the people defending the building are at the windows or running trying to put out fires. A few of the latter, when they spot Grant, try to shoot him or send up an alarm. Grant crosses them off swiftly and the rest learn to leave him be. They’ve got bigger problems.

He doesn’t find Simmons on the second floor. He’s halfway up the smoke filled stairwell when he hears her voice coming down.

“-and you’d better hope you don’t get shot while you’re out committing nefarious deeds! Because I will not be patching you up! I’m not a real doctor; I didn’t take the Hippocratic Oath! I can watch you die and my conscience will be clean!”

Grant chuckles silently and backs into the corner. The smoke’s so thick, if he stays still he’ll look like just another shadow. Two sets of footsteps coming down the stairs - Simmons and whoever’s got her; it’s almost too easy.

When a large shadow moves through the smoke in front of him, he lashes out - and is almost immediately knocked down by something big falling into him. It’s warm, definitely a body, and sounds like Simmons.

Kicks like her too because now _she’s_ attacking _him_. Great. He rolls out from under her and kicks the feet out from under the guy who was carrying her.

“Stay down!” he yells as he stands. The second guard is already coming at him.

“ _Ward?_ ” Simmons asks while he’s trying to dodge blurry punches and kicks from two opponents on different levels. Really not the kind of activity he wants to hold a conversation during.

“Who else would be saving your ass?”

“‘Saving my-’? _You’re_ the one who set off those explosions! You completely ruined my escape plan!”

“Your _what_?”

One of his opponents catches a lucky hit to Grant’s jaw that knocks him back, gives him enough room to pull the knife he stole from one of the men on the truck. After that, it’s only a few swipes, a jab and a twist and it’s over in a matter of seconds. He pockets the knife and returns to the corner. When he squats down he can kind of make out Simmons’ face.

“ _You’re_ why that last explosion was so big,” he says, grinning.

“Yes,” she pouts. “And my plan would’ve worked if you hadn’t come rushing in here like some great idiot playing at white knight! It doesn’t suit you.”

“I’ll take that under consideration,” he says and grabs for her arm. “Come o-”

Her whimper cuts him off and the stiffness under his palm gives him pause. Even in the fog, she looks pale.

“That son of a bitch broke your arm.”

“It wasn’t him, precisely. It was one of his men.”

Grant wishes he’d taken the time to kill just  _so_ many more people on his way here, but with Simmons injured he can’t take the risk of detouring now. At least he killed her guards; there’s a good chance it was one of them who did this to her. “You said you had a plan? What was your exit strategy?”

“The sewers, I’m much more accustomed to foul smells than any of these people are likely to be, but I wouldn’t risk it with the fires. There’s a side alley. It’s too narrow for a car, they don’t use it much.”

“It’s also the kill zone Anton’s got men parked at the end of. Dammit.”

“Who’s Anton?”

“Later. Are you hurt anywhere else?” Before she’s shaken her head once he’s already got her on her feet. “Good. Let’s go.”

He pulls her by her good arm up the stairs instead of down and, by the grip she’s got on his hand, either she’s figured out his plan or that broken bone’s hurting her worse than she let on. He takes out three more men on the way and stops them at the roof entrance so he can take a look out.

What’s left of the smoke is blocking out the entire sky to the west. Thankfully the wind’s taking it away from the building, giving him great visibility for their escape and, unfortunately, a clear view of the snipers on the north wall. There are two kids with them, doing the work of reloading the rifles.

“Please tell me,” Simmons whispers, “you have a quinjet hidden up there.”

“Sorry, no.” He keeps one eye out the door. “When I say go, we’re gonna run that way-” he points to the east, to the narrow alley she was gonna use- “and jump from this roof to the next one.”

“Ward-”

“It’s only a few feet. You can do this.”

She doesn’t seem convinced and he can see her running through all the worst eventualities in her head.

He squeezes her hand until she meets his eyes. “I got you. Okay?”

There was a time that kind of thing would have had her blushing, trying to hide her crush in science and babbling. Today it leaves her incredulous.

“Oh,” he says slowly. “I am gonna _love_ the look on your face when I prove you wrong.”

Outside, the kids hand over fresh rifles at almost the same moment. They’ll be occupied reloading and the snipers will be busy picking off Anton’s men. There won’t be a better time than this.

“Let’s go.”

There’s a faint pull back on Simmons’ part, but it’s only that initial burst of fear and she _does_ follow. Which is good because without anyone to beat up, Grant’s adrenaline is wearing off and he can feel the ache in his ribs; he’s not gonna be able to carry her across that gap no matter how narrow it is.

Their feet are loud on the roof, have to be drawing attention. Grant speeds up a little and Simmons easily keeps pace. His chest is burning and her arm’s gotta be killing her with every step they take and he can hear someone yelling behind them and ahead of them the alley is rising up, a dark line at the edge of the roof. Grant jumps.

Simmons’ hand slips in his and he tightens his grip. She squeezes back hard the second before they hit the neighboring roof in one piece.

“See?” he asks with a grin. He knows she’d like to take a moment just to be glad she _survived_ , but they’ve got a lot of ground to cover. He’s running before they’re even fully on their feet again and it’s over the far side of the roof to the fire escape.

Once they hit the ground, she collapses into his chest. Surprised, he catches her without thinking and smooths her hair while fire trucks and police roll past the mouth of the alley. The sun’s up by now and 33’s probably going stir-crazy, but they can waste a few minutes.

Simmons’ breath shakes out of her like she’s just on the verge of sobs. It’s wet and warm through his shirt even after she starts to settle down.

Or maybe she doesn’t settle so much because all of a sudden she’s tugging his shirt up.

“What are you-”

“I knew it!” she yells and smacks him just below his ribs.

Pain erupts through his abdomen, tightening his rib cage and turning his lungs to lead. He grips her shoulder both for support and to be sure she’s not making a run for it. He seriously considers dislocating it in retaliation because that _hurts_.

“You tore your stitches!” She huffs loudly. “Couldn’t the evil version of you at least be good where the good version was a pain in my neck?!”

He forces himself to straighten before he’s quite ready and meets her eyes, projecting a mix of pain, curiosity, and confusion.

“What?” she asks, squirming a little.

“I cannot believe I just risked my neck to save your life and you do _that_  to me.” He gestures to the wet spot on his shirt - it’s his blood, he sees now, not her tears - just to drive the point home.

She blanches, looking momentarily guilty. He grabs her hand before she can recover and pulls her in the direction of the laundromat.

 


	4. I-95 (1)

They stop at a strip off the highway, nothing but gas stations and fast food places. With Miami finally well behind them, the three of them have all suddenly realized how long it’s been since they last ate. They go through a McDonald’s drive-thru and then park in the back of the lot to eat in silence broken only by crinkling wrappers and quiet thank-yous every time 33 helps Simmons open her food without her left arm.

“I’m gonna run to the gas station,” Simmons says once she’s finished her McMuffin ( _and_ hash browns _and_ pancakes _and_ bacon; she made no secret she felt he could afford it after _selling_ her and doesn’t seem to appreciate the little detail that he was always planning on coming _back_ ).

Grant reaches into the front to grab her door before she can open it. “Into the gas station with the cameras and the cashier who’s probably got a gun he’d be glad to aim at your ‘abusive boyfriend’? Not a chance.”

She meets his eyes steadily. “Into the gas station with the bathroom and the first aid supplies.” She nods to his still-sticky side. “You need stitches.”

“33 can go.”

“Bathroom,” Simmons repeats levelly.

Grant glances across the street. The station’s bathrooms are on the outside, 33 could get the key and- An RV rolls into the McDonald’s lot, blocking Grant’s view of the gas station. Sitting up front are an old man and woman and, wouldn’t you know, there’s a cross swinging from the rearview. Grant smiles.

“33 can use the McDonald’s bathroom. You and I are gonna make some friends.”

He leaves Simmons in the car - her arm’s braced, but it’s clearly a rush job, not the sort of thing the civilians should be seeing head-on - and heads over to the RV just as the couple is climbing out.

“Hey,” he calls sheepishly in a Georgia accent. “Listen, I’m real sorry to ask, but do you happen to have a first aid kid on board?”

The man’s first out and looks Grant over critically. “You look like you need a doctor, son.”

Grant chuckles even though it makes is ribs burn. “It’s not mine. My girlfriend was helping me with the engine and-” He winces. “She insisted we keep goin’ - we’re on our way to visit her sister in the city - but we’re still an hour out and you know how ERs are, we’re probably better off dealin’ with it on the side of the road.”

The wife appears behind her husband, passing the kit over his shoulder. “You take whatever you need, dear. Does she need any help?”

Grant shakes his head. “She’s already plenty embarrassed I’m askin’ you folks. Thank you so much. I’ll bring this back straight away.”

“Take your time. We’ll be inside,” the husband says, still eyeing him critically. It’s the soot from Simmons’ damn fire; Grant’s hair is probably _white_ with it. He smiles genially and heads for the car.

Simmons is sitting stiffly in the front seat when he climbs in on the driver’s side. “I still have to pee,” she says.

“One thing at a time,” he says absently as he opens the box to examine its contents. Just like he’d hoped, the couple’s got everything they need for his side, along with a half bottle of ibuprofen for Simmons.

She takes four with the last of her juice and supervises while he stitches himself back up. “Are you sure you don’t want me to-?” she asks the third time his breath hisses.

The first two times she asked, he shot off some snide answer, but as he’s having a little trouble seeing straight, he figures he’ll keep his focus on only stabbing himself where he needs to.

There’s another hiss of pain, this time not from him, and then Simmons is taking the needle from him with her good hand. She bends awkwardly around her arm and he finds himself supporting her shoulder so she doesn’t accidentally put weight on it.

“Thank you,” she says absently, already in doctor-mode. She makes the last two stitches quickly and when she snips the thread, they both sit back, panting from the pain.

His skin goes cold and tingly all over. He reaches for the stack of cotton swabs to clean himself up. “How’s the arm?” he asks between swipes. This pain’s a whole lot less than the other, but it’s still enough he just wants to lay down in the back and sleep until South Carolina.

“Broken,” she says dryly.

He’s too hurt to laugh so he just huffs out a breath and lets her figure it out. “It’s set though?”

She nods weakly. “I’d feel better with an x-ray, but as that doesn’t seem to be on the itinerary, it’s as good as I can make it.”

“Right.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Once they’re both good to stand again and 33’s back to keep watch, Grant sneaks Jemma into the RV to pee. She complains the entire time about everything from the breaking and entering to the using someone else’s bathroom to how  _small_ it is. He seriously considers just going outside and leaving with 33, saving himself the headache.

After that, they’re on their way save for a quick stop in the next town to steal a new car. No one bothers asking for lunch and Grant’s glad to avoid more fast food, so it’s clear sailing for hours after that until all of a sudden Simmons is yelling for 33 to pull over. She’s so obviously rattled that they go shooting across three lanes of traffic and her door’s open before the car’s even settled. Horns blare around them as cars speed past, but Grant can easily hear her throwing up into the grass.

“Shit,” he breathes and jumps out. There’s nothing for him to do except get her hair out of her face and untangle her from her half-off seatbelt. Once that’s done, she collapses against him, letting him take her weight. “The arm’s fine, huh?” he asks and it says a hell of a lot that she’s in too much pain to remind him she didn’t say that at all.

He helps Simmons into the back where he can keep an eye on her and then orders 33 to get them going. Her hands are white on the steering wheel and she’s wearing an expression he’s only ever seen on May’s face when Skye was shot, but she does as she’s told.

Simmons is shaking and her skin’s clammy. Grant’s half-sure she’s out of it (and relieved she is too) until she stutters an uneven, “Be nice t-to her.” And God, that is _so_ Simmons, isn’t it? She just vomited on the side of the road from pain and she’s pissed at him because he’s not doing right by 33.

He brushes her hair back from her face. “Yeah, I will.”

She makes a sound he can’t identify and her back tenses against his ribs. “Liar.”

He holds her tight, giving her something to focus on that isn’t the pain in her arm. “That I am, so you’d better heal up quick. You hear me, Simmons?”

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes aren’t quite closed and he can just see little white slivers beneath her eyelashes.

He looks up, sees 33’s watching him in the rearview and looking well and truly freaked. It’s almost funny seeing May’s face like that. He forces himself to focus. 33’s not May and if May _were_ here, she’d be kicking Grant’s ass for letting this happen to Simmons. She’d also be calling in the full might of SHIELD (what’s left of it) to get Simmons the care she needs. As that’s not much of an option, Grant’s gotta handle this himself.

It occurs to him as he stares out at the highway, hunting for an avenue, that he could dump her. Pull off into one of those rest stops, throw her out the side and even if someone saw, he can get them a new car in the next town. Simmons might live, might not, but she wouldn’t be his problem anymore.

Her body tenses again and her face twists into his chest. She’s shaking as bad as she was when he caught her out of the air at twenty thousand feet and there’s something wrong about that when she’s too weak to grab at him the way she did then. Even on the verge of death she was strong enough to leave bruises that lasted for days.

He shakes his head and turns his attention back to the road. He didn’t drop her then and he’s not gonna drop her now. (The fact that he did, once, is something he’s not gonna think about - not now while she’s sick and not _ever_ either.)

“Take the next exit,” he orders when he spots a blue sign flying past.

33 does as she’s told and he gives himself one brief moment, the space between two of his heartbeats, to feel guilty for that, for giving her a firm, unrelenting order.

And then the moment’s gone and he reminds himself it couldn’t be helped. 33’s suffering but Simmons is the one in dire straights right now.

As luck would have it, 33 isn’t completely fetterless. She saw his intention well enough and manages to navigate them to the little roadside clinic without any further instructions, leaving Grant with nothing to do for the drive but search Simmons for other injuries. When he finds none, he’s so frustrated he gives fleeting thought to turning them back around so he can break that bastard Martinez’ arms, _both_ of them. But then they’re in the lot at the back of the building and 33’s looking at him because she has no idea where to go from here.

There’s only one other car in the lot, right by the door. Probably someone working late or a janitor cleaning up, Grant doesn’t care, he just needs _in_.

“Grab a gun,” he says and navigates both him and Simmons out of the back seat with her in his arms. She’s so damn tiny and, in the stark evening light, so damn _pale_ , but she rouses when he jostles her on his way to his feet. “It’s okay,” he soothes. “I’ve got you.”

She relaxes and even curls into him. “Ward,” she sighs. The agonized lines on her face ease a little and her lips turn up. She’s so out of it she’s forgotten she hates him. It’s not much of a relief.

Up ahead, 33’s already at the door. Some twenty-something guy, looking like shit after a long shift, is in the window, yelling through it that they’re closed, they either have to come back tomorrow or- his eyes catch on Grant and Simmons - or get her to the ER, _now_. Grant nods at 33 and she aims her gun at the kid.

The guy doesn’t say it loud enough for Grant to hear through the window, but there’s definitely some cursing before the lock clicks over.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“She’s fine,” Jeff says. He’s not a doctor, as he told Grant and 33 repeatedly when they first arrived, he just does data entry and cleans up at the end of the day and, on the side, sells prescription drugs lifted from the pharmacy. But he’s hung around enough he knows how to work all the machines - or can read the manuals because he’s not an idiot - and knows enough to assure them Simmons is gonna be okay. Which he’s done about a dozen times now.

The first time came with a whole explanation that she probably pushed herself too hard, was in too much pain, and advice they should definitely take her to an ER (or not, he added quickly when Grant and 33 gave him a look) to double check. All the other times have probably had something to do with the way Grant keeps staring at her on that exam bed.

She’s sleeping peacefully now thanks to the meds Jeff gave her and her arm’s in a real cast. They’ve even got x-rays showing the fracture; Grant’s definitely had worse.

A distant knock sounds and Jeff perks up. “Uh, that’s probably one of my, er, clients? Do you mind if I…?”

Grant nods. To 33 he says, “Watch him.”

She pushes off from the wall and follows close behind Jeff. Grant keeps one ear tuned to the transaction happening out there while he stands to pace the exam room. He doesn’t like feeling helpless, that’s what this is. He wasn’t lying to Skye when he told her he wanted the Chitauri virus to be a person he could fight. _People_ he can handle, disease and injury, those aren’t his area of expertise. Being unable to do anything for Simmons all over again must be what’s got his nerves on edge and his stomach in knots.

He bounces on his heels as he walks, hoping to dispel some of the extra energy the adrenaline rush left him with. She’s fine and, if Jeff the drug dealer is to be believed, she’ll be awake and nagging his ear off again anytime now.

In the distance, the door to the outside closes as Jeff finishes his underhanded dealings. Grant returns to his chair beside Simmons, settling in again to watch and wait.

 


	5. I-95 (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These last two updates have been amazingly close together thanks, in part, to the lovely feedback I got on last chapter. You guys are the best. <3 That said, I cannot promise the same or even close to the same frequency going forward because wow, I do not know what my muse was thinking. (Well, I do actually, it's all of that stuff down there.)

Grant’s shirt’s off and he’s sitting on a crinkly paper bedcover while Simmons pokes at his side. She’s been awake for less than ten minutes and already she’s ordering him around like they’re back on the Bus. Annoying as it is, it’s also a relief.

She’s okay - okay enough to cause him physical pain.

“Jeez, could you do that again? My spleen’s not bruised yet.”

“Your spleen’s on the other side,” she says evenly, still bent close to his chest. Her breath’s warm against the cold of the room and every time it falls over his injuries it sends a shiver through him.

“They’re holding,” he grits out, “can you just-”

She straightens. “What did you pick up?”

He frowns in confusion and she gives him her patented _you’re not fooling me_ stare - which is both a lot funnier given that she knows he _can_ fool her and a lot less cute without all the fondness she used to hold for him before.

“I know you,” she says finally, “and I know when your stitches have been aggravated because you thought you could lift something you shouldn’t have. So what was it that you couldn’t trust 33 to handle or at the very least help you with?”

He looks her over top to bottom. Her hair’s still a mess but she’s tried to brush it out with her fingers since waking up, and she’s still pale but the drugs have smoothed out the wrinkles of pain. Her clothes look like shit from the fire and her left sleeve’s torn all to hell; if he concentrates, he can remember the exact shape and darkness of the bruises that cast is covering up, the place someone held her down while they broke her. His blood’s on her - a big stain on the front of her shirt and three tracks on her hip like she wiped it off her fingers.

She needs new clothes and a shower. They all do. Something to think about later, when they’re on the road again.

He drags his eyes back up to hers. “You.”

Back on the Bus he was playing her, he’d flirt a little when they were alone, just enough to keep her interested. It was tactical - and fun, can’t forget that - and it gave him a look at a different side of her than the others ever saw. So he knows that surprised little O she’s making with her mouth and that hint of a blush on her cheeks.

She’s still attracted to him.

At least _someone_ is.

He slides off the bed while she’s still distracted and grabs his shirt, eager to cover up the gunshot wounds. The pain’s plenty, he doesn’t need to see them too.

But Simmons still wants him, he thinks, bringing himself back to the matter at hand. She may not want to want him, but she does and that’s not nothing. He can build on that, hopefully get her back to trusting him so that he might not have to watch her every second of every day until he can figure out what to do with her.

33 comes into the exam room, Jeff trailing behind her, carrying something big and bulky in both his arms.

“How’s this?” she asks while he puts it down on the bed. Now that it’s sitting upright, Grant can see it’s an old model defibrillator.

Simmons bends over it, checking it over carefully before pronouncing it, “Perfect. I’ll also need his cell phone.”

“What!” Jeff shrieks. 33’s already on him, snatching his phone from his pocket.

Grant plucks it from her fingers before Simmons can take it. “Nuh-uh. First rule of kidnapping: don’t give the hostage a cell phone.”

33 looks hurt, a big contrast to the pleased pride she was sporting a second ago. That’s really something she should know though, so he doesn’t drop his own stern expression, not even when he has to hold the phone over his head to keep Simmons from reaching it. She stands in front of him - seething, impotent; there’s plenty in here she could climb on to reach, but he learned on the Bus she’s got way too much self-respect for that.

“I’m just starting to heal,” he says innocently, “if SHIELD shows up and I have to fight them, my doctor’s gonna be pissed.”

Oh, she is _so_ mad. She’s like one of those little yappy dogs that just shakes with rage. It’s a lot more entertaining than when she was sick as a dog.

She makes another jump - one she’s gotta know she can’t make and it’s only when she’s in the air that he realizes she _does_ , it’s a distraction. The back of her hand strikes his side, not right on his stitches but close enough that pain has him curling in on himself.

She snatches the phone and darts around the bed before he can stop her. The damn crinkly paper tears under his hand and he seriously considers the wisdom of chasing her around the bed versus just lunging straight over it at her.

The phone’s SIM card skitters across the paper to hit his arm before he can decide.

“There,” Simmons says, “now you don’t have to worry.”

“Uh,” Jeff says, “can I have that-”

Grant ignores him. “You can still call 911.”

She purses her lips. “Yes, and then I can explain to them that I’m a foreign national, living illegally in this country, and that I’m currently wanted on terrorism charges. That sounds like an _excellent_ idea, Ward, thank you for your input.”

She’s right of course, but that doesn’t mean she can’t cause him plenty of trouble with it. She could still call 911, let herself be taken in, and trust the team to get her out like they got her out of HYDRA. Coulson’s probably watching emergency calls all over Gulf Coast, hoping to get some word on her.

She sighs and holds out the phone. “I’ll need it later, but if you’d feel better holding it until I’m ready to begin work…”

He grabs it from her. As if he’s gonna let Simmons work on _anything_. Hell, letting her walk around freely in this two-bit clinic is bad enough; she could kill them all with the stuff in here.

“When can I,” Jeff asks slowly, “get that back?” He’s against the wall by the door, bent over like he thought better of curling up like a frightened rabbit halfway to the floor.

“You can’t,” Simmons says. “But I’m sure we can reimburse you for it.”

Grant lets out a slow breath and pockets the phone before pulling out some of Martinez’ cash. He tosses a few bills at Jeff to cover the expense and the hassle they’ve put him through. When he looks back to Simmons, she’s smiling meanly. Bitch.

He looks to the defibrillator. “Is that it or are we gonna steal at CAT scan machine while we’re here?”

“Uh, we don’t have one of-”

“Shut up, Jeff,” Grant says. Jeff’s ass hits the floor.

“Yes,” Simmons says, “that should be sufficient, though I’d also like to stop and get some cables if at all possible.”

He considers saying no on principle - this is his hostage situation, not hers - but he did just decide they needed to go shopping anyway and if it’ll keep her quiet…

“Yeah, fine,” he sighs and gestures for the girls to head out first. 33 grabs the machine and Simmons grabs the bag of drugs Jeff gave them for both her and Grant. He follows but stops in the doorway to kneel down next to Jeff. From this angle he can both see Jeff and keep an eye on the girls heading for the back door.

“You’ve seen a lot of things tonight, Jeff, heard a lot of things.”

Jeff lifts his hands, waves them on either side of his head. “Hey, hey. I heard nothin’, all right? It all goes in one ear and out the other. No one’s gonna hear anything about you guys from me.”

Grant’s hand wraps around the handle of the pistol in the back of his jeans. Down the hall, Simmons stops to look back at him. She’s all wide eyes and worry, the bag swinging from her good hand while her other is held protectively to her stomach. Grant lets go of the gun and taps Jeff’s cheek with his flat fingers.

“That’s right. They won’t. Because if I even _think_ I see red and blue lights in my rearview, I’m gonna turn right around and come back here to carve a piece of you off to take with me to jail as a souvenir. I don’t know which part though. It’s kind of like ordering at a restaurant where everything sounds good, I don’t know until it comes out of my mouth. Hey!” He brightens as he stands. “Maybe your tongue! There’s an idea.”

He leaves Jeff shaking on the floor.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

It’s after midnight by the time they pull into a Wal-Mart lot a couple miles away from the clinic. Grant sends 33 inside - _alone_ \- to buy Simmons her damn cables and some actual necessities (soap, hairbrushes, toothpaste, _underwear_ , that kinda stuff) while he and Simmons break into the donation box at the far corner of the lot to find them some new clothes.

“Should I feel bad about this?” she asks while holding up a flowered blouse with sparkles all over the front. She tosses it in the shopping cart they’re using for the stuff they’re keeping. The sparkles clatter against the defibrillator before it lands in a heap next to the bag of money and guns.

“These are for people who can’t afford full-price stuff,” Grant says, discarding a pair of sweats he could fit in twice.

“We _can_ afford the full-price,” she reminds him.

“You know,” he snaps, “I am getting real tired of you bringing that up. I was always gonna come back for you.”

She makes an ugly noise and that he can’t let go. He may have had to put up with that kind of shit while he was locked in that cell, playing broken and crazy with guilt, but now that he’s out he’s _done_.

“Hey!” he yells, rising to his feet. “I _was_. You think it was the smart thing to do? You think saving your ass didn’t put me in danger, didn’t risk leaving 33 all alone out there? I could be halfway to _anywhere else_ right now, but instead I nearly died at least _twice_ coming back for you. So maybe show a little gratitude once in a while.”

He can’t see her face between the angle she’s at and the shadows from the parking lot lights, but he can see she’s shaking. Hell.

“You left me,” she says quietly.

He runs a hand through his hair and leans against the side of the donation box. He gentles his voice (so much for his plans to play on her lingering crush). “Yeah. I did. Martinez had me outmanned and outgunned, I had to walk away.”

She shakes her hair out of her face as she lifts her head. “And you wouldn’t have been in that position if you hadn’t been a traitor, if you hadn’t kidnapped me in the first place-”

“Whoa, now,” he says. “That was 33, I didn’t tell her to kidnap you. I just told her to get us out of there. Probably the only reason she dragged you along was that Whitehall ordered her to keep an eye on you before he died, she couldn’t help it.”

He thinks for a minute that mention of 33’s finally shut her up - Simmons may hate him, but she’s way too nice to blame 33 for anything she did back there - but it’s only a minute before she gets her second wind.

“33 was brainwashed. You have no such excuse for your behavior.”

He rolls his eyes and goes back to digging through the clothes. There’s gotta be a decent pair of jeans in here.

“I forgot to ask 33 to get me some tools.”

Now it’s Grant’s turn to make an ugly noise. He’s still not sold on letting her experiment, doesn’t even know why he’s letting 33 buy the damn cables or why Jeff’s phone is burning a hole in his pocket.

“Did Skye really shoot you?” The question’s quiet and she very purposefully doesn’t stop her hunting through the clothes to see his reaction, so he wouldn’t even know she’d really asked it if not for the stiff angle of her shoulders.

He’s gotta swallow twice before he can manage a choked, “Yeah.”

She glances at him then - at his chest - and after everything that’s happened since the Uprising, he has no idea what that look on her face means.

Footsteps approach from the store. 33. Grant leaves off hunting for decent clothes to meet her, throwing a hand out when he passes Simmons so she knows to stay put.

“Get everything you need?” he asks. Her arms are heavy with the bags but he doesn’t bother offering to help.

“I think so. Would you like to double-check?” Something about the way she says it reminds him of that detached way all compliant agents talk. She’s been getting better, but she’s still a long way off from well.

“Nah. Let Simmons though, it’s mostly her shit. Look for some clothes for yourself - and no asking her to help you decide,” he adds, remembering what she said back in Miami. He scans the parking lot. “When you guys are done, head over to the Baskin-Robbins over there, they‘ve got benches. I should be back in about half an hour.”

“What?” She sounds terrified and he gives her a gentle smile. It works on her, so at least he hasn’t completely lost his touch.

“I’m just stealing us a new car. Jeff saw us in that one.”

“Right.” She looks at her shoes.

“See you soon.” He squeezes her shoulder before turning and heading for the road. Simmons stands when he jogs past but he ignores her, he’s gotta get this done.

This time of night there’s not much going on so he heads across the four lanes of traffic in a lazy arch that gets his blood pumping in his legs. He covers another two blocks, ducking down back alleys and through parking lots, before he finds the car he wants. The lot it’s in says no overnight parking but whoever owns it is obviously pushing his luck. The inside’s dusty and it looks like it’s only been driven to move it around the lot every so often.

Even if the owner comes back for it tomorrow, they’re gonna assume it was towed and spend all day trying to track it down before they realize it was stolen.

He’s in and has the engine running in under a minute and then it’s back towards the highway. He turns away from the bright Wal-Mart lights when he hits the main road and reaches the clinic just as the clock on the dash turns over to one a.m. Jeff’s at his car and stops with his key in the lock as the bright headlights fall on him.

Grant pulls up perpendicular to him, blocking Jeff’s car with the nose of his. “Hey, Jeff,” he greets.

“Whoa, shit!” Jeff’s hands fly up. “I swear, I didn’t tell no one about you guys!”

Grant leans forward to pull his gun out. His ribs twitch but those drugs are damn good, the pain’s gone after only a second. (Probably he shouldn’t be driving while he’s on them.)

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “You’re too much of a coward to talk, Jeff.”

Not so much he’s pissed himself though, it’s almost impressive. His hands drop to his knees and he drags in deep breaths like he’s trying not to hyperventilate.

“Oh, thank God. What’re you back for then? Because, I gotta tell you, we really don’t have a CAT-”

The night sounds eerily still and quiet in the wake of the gunshot. Grant tosses his gun onto the passenger seat and climbs out to search the body - luckily the blood’s all going the other way into the gutter so he doesn’t have to worry about the mess getting on his shoes - for the money; no point wasting it. 

There’s not much nearby the clinic - businesses mostly and the area’s not exactly great, so he’s not expecting a great police response time - but it’s always best to make yourself scarce after committing murder. Still, he hesitates. With a muttered curse and a fleeting thought he went soft in that cell, he grabs the keys to pop the trunk.

The guy was a mess but he’s got a toolkit in the back along with one of those emergency jumpstart boxes. Grant grabs both and drops them next to his gun when he gets in. Time to get going, the girls’ll be wondering what’s keeping him and they’ve gotta put some serious distance between them and this town.

 


	6. Savannah

In a seaside estate down the coast from Miami, Gabriel Martinez inspects the mark along his jaw in the morning light. It is no longer red and angry, fit to turn the stomach of a lesser man; it’s turned the corner and has begun settling into the scar it will be. It’s far from his first scar and not even the first he received in such an … amusing manner, but for the losses that came with it and the placement - for those he will have vengeance.

 

 

In a nothing town at the northern edge of Florida, the file is closed on Jeff Layden’s murder. The local paper runs a story on the drug deal gone bad, along with a suitably sad quote from the detective in charge saying they’re hunting for the culprit, presumably some poor soul at the end of his rope. The article ends with mention of places to get help in the case of drug addiction and dull hopes for the well-being of Jeff’s few family members.

 

 

In a car in the parking lot of an old hotel-turned-motel called the Deer Crossing, Grant Ward wakes with a start. He swallows down the stale taste in his mouth twice, taking in his surroundings. He’s in the car - hopefully the _last_ car since they actually bought this one off a shifty used car dealer with the money Jeff donated - and he’s alone.

He grabs for the door to rush out (where are Simmons and 33?!) but stops when something hits him smack in the middle of his forehead. He lets his back hit the seat again and sees a key dangling from the visor. When he gives it a tug, it comes with a big plastic card with 108 printed on it.

Grant looks out the front window and yep, they’re parked right in front of room number 108. He slams out of the car, his teeth gritted and fury burning through him. At the door, he pauses to listen and hears only the low murmur of conversation. Female voices. Two of them. Probably the girls, but he puts one hand on the gun at the back of his jeans just to be safe.

The key slides easily into the lock and he turns it as silently as possible before letting the door fall open. He comes into the room with his gun up, sweeping the small space in one quick motion.

“Really?” Simmons asks dryly. She’s perched on the edge of the bed closest to the door, with 33 laying beside her and looking oddly still. Most likely that has something to do with the wires feeding into her mask and the mess Simmons has made of the defibrillator and half a dozen other little things she’s scavenged without his notice. (He’s gonna have to do a better job watching her.) She shakes her head and goes right back to her work. One of her hands touches 33’s shoulder briefly. “Don’t worry. Ward’s just being overdramatic.”

He stows his gun and kicks the door shut. “We’re on the run, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Simmons’ mouth twists down and he can _see_ her trying to reason some way she can argue _he’s_ the one on the run, but she can’t; the feds want them both, not to mention SHIELD and HYDRA out hunting for them.

“Any change?” she asks while he checks the bathroom, just to be safe.

“No,” 33 says and then, “She said you’d be angry if we tried to move you.”

Grant falls onto the second bed. “I’m angry you didn’t try to wake me.”

“We did,” Simmons says, tapping away at what might’ve once been Jeff’s phone. “You were out like a light.”

“Well _someone_ didn’t warn me how strong those painkillers were.”

“And _someone_ spent a year pretending he was too tough to bother with painkillers, giving me no idea what his tolerance might _actually_ be.”

He scoffs because there’s really nothing to say to that. He hated going without just for the sake of his cover and he’s willing to bet she hates it too in retrospect, more than she did at the time. She was always watching him with those wide, worried eyes, seeking him out to make sure the pain hadn’t gotten any worse. That was a lot of time wasted caring for a guy she hates now.

“What are you doing anyway?” he asks, figuring he should have some idea; she _is_ still his prisoner.

Her lips curl up and she makes one more adjustment with whatever she’s working on. “There, do you see the-?”

“Yes!” 33 says, sounding almost giddy. Grant cranes his neck to get a better look at her and sees the photostatic veil shimmer.

“Do a reboot?” Simmons asks.

The mask shimmers again and now Grant’s on his feet, moving in to see. Simmons’ legs kick up and she twists back for the mess of crap she’s got on the nightstand. From it, she pulls a compact to hold up in front of 33’s face.

“Better?”

33 sits up and Grant freezes halfway between the beds. She looks like May. _Exactly_ like May - no scar, no burns - except for the emotion of course. She can’t tear her eyes away from the mirror and she touches the no-longer-ruined side of her face almost reverently.

“The damage is still there,” Simmons says apologetically. “But at least now the veil is repaired and you’re no longer trapped looking like Agent May.” She taps 33’s knee, startling her. “Come on. Try me.”

33 looks a little uneasy about the request but a second later there are two Simmonses on the bed, both smiling at each other.

“Well,” Grant says, dropping to the edge of his bed, “that’s gonna make hiding in plain sight a heck of a lot easier.”

Simmons looks away distastefully but 33 beams at him. It’s nice, actually, even if the hair’s all wrong, he’s missed having Simmons’ smile directed his way. He returns it with an easy one of his own.

“Where are we anyway?” he asks.

“Savannah,” 33 says in Simmons’ voice.

She shifts closer to his side of the bed when Simmons starts packing up her shit. Grant heads around to help her out - not so much because she needs it with her arm still in the cast, but because, in her hands, all that science crap is more dangerous than any gun; he wants to make sure she doesn’t secret anything away while he’s not looking.

“You’ve been asleep for almost a day,” 33 adds, drawing her knees to her chest to watch them work.

“Savannah, hm?” he echoes. Simmons goes stiff, watches him warily like she’s a rabbit getting ready to run. He gives her his most wolfish grin. “I know what we’re gonna do today.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

After a pee and a shower - because after a day asleep in the front seat of a car he _really_ needs both - he takes the girls to a certain freeway overpass. He’s gotta climb out over the water to get at what he wants and even with eighteen wheelers rolling by overhead he hears Simmons’ cry from the shore when he drops what he’s looking for in the river below. If she does it again when he follows, he can’t hear through the water in his ears, but she looks plenty pissed when he drags himself and the suitcase out of the river, so he’s guessing she was worried.

He gives her and 33 both a smile and drops to his knees in the mud to open the case. It’s water tight - and heavy as hell for it - but it was worth the strain for what’s inside: clothes, fake IDs, and an assortment of weapons that put the crap Martinez stuck them with to shame.

33 whistles. “Nice.”

“Thanks, I like to be prepared. You wanna load it all into the trunk for me?” The case itself is more trouble than it’s worth; they’ll be better off moving everything in duffel bags from here on out.

“No,” she says, and it’s weird seeing May’s face light up like it does. “But I will anyway.”

Grant grabs the IDs belonging to one Zack Tucker and a fresh set of clothes before leaving 33 to it. Anything else he needs from it, he’ll pull later, for now he just wants it out of sight in case anyone can see them down here. He heads for the car, tosses his shit on the hood, and strips.

Simmons follows slowly and, when his shirt’s off, moves right into his personal space to check his stitches.

“They’re _fine_ ,” he says even though he kinda wishes they weren’t; he’s liking the concern. “I guess a day of sleep was just what the doctor ordered.”

She makes a delicate little noise and backs off, giving him room to get out of his wet jeans.

“What about you?” he asks. “How’s the arm?”

“Fine,” she says automatically.

“ _Jemma_.” That gets her looking at him again. “Seriously. How’s the arm?”

She examines the cast. “Better. I’ll be stuck with this thing for a few more weeks, but it’s not hurting the way it was anymore.”

He nods, relief washing over him. He doesn’t _ever_ wanna see her like that again.

The trunk slams shut and 33 joins them. Weirder than her smiles is seeing May blush when she sees Grant shirtless.

“So,” Simmons says, “back to the motel?”

“No!” Grant says. He grabs the dry shirt from the hood, along with a baseball cap - he always keeps one in his go-bags, just in case he needs to hide. The shirt he pulls on over his head, and the cap he tosses to Simmons. “I told you, I have a plan.”

“But I thought-”

“This was a stopover - an important one,” he adds, waving his IDs at her before pocketing them, “but the real mission hasn’t even started yet. Get in.”

He drives them to a nearby mall. 33 he leaves to pick out her own lunch in the food court while he keeps close to Simmons to make sure she doesn’t get bold now that they’re in so public a place.

He hates to do it, but he makes 33 move after she’s chosen a table ahead of them. The one she’s got is great for keeping a watch on their surroundings, but it’s got too much exposure for what they’re here to do.

He sets his and Simmons’ trays down at a semi-secluded booth. They’ve got a trash on one side, hiding them from view, and on another is a big, leafy plant, perfect for concealing some people watching.

The girls sit across from him, both looking more than a little wary. He smiles and steals one of 33’s fries to point through the leaves. “Go ahead,” he says, “pick someone you like.”

Her face lights up as she realizes what he means.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“What are you doing?” Simmons asks, going stiff under the arm he’s draped over her shoulders.

It’s been about half an hour since they left 33 to herself and started window shopping for lack of anything better to do and in that time it’s gotten late enough that the mall’s filling up with kids from the college up the road. Up to now that’s been fine - Grant’s got nothing against being ogled - but there’s a group of guys over by the Baskin Robbins who are showing a little too much interest in Simmons.

“Holding my girlfriend close,” he says, giving her a squeeze. She tries to shrug him off and, when that doesn’t work, pushes up her cap to glare at him.

“I am _not_ your-”

He stops their amble through the mall to move in front of her. He taps the brim of her cap down to avoid the cameras before dropping his free arm on her shoulder. “You are as far as those mouth-breathers over there are concerned. And quit fussing, we’re undercover.”

“No, _I’m_ undercover. _You’re_ just walking around like there’s not a bounty on your head.”

He catches her chin. “You’re the one SHIELD’s scouring the Earth for right now, not me.”

She goes stiff again. “And what are you going to do when they find me?”

When, she says, not if. She’s probably right about that. Depending on how things went down in San Juan - badly, he’s assuming - Coulson might have given her up for dead or he might be tearing HYDRA apart head-by-head to find who’s got her now that Whitehall’s out of the picture. That’s Grant’s best guess as to why no one’s swooped in to save her because the truth is that all the care in the world can’t keep her off every security camera and Skye can find anyone.

He shrugs because he honestly hasn’t thought that far ahead. It’s a _worry_ , yeah, but he hasn’t thought about what he’ll do if he can’t avoid it. Right now it’s just about staying alive and moving.

“Trade you so they’ll let me walk, I guess. That’s assuming they give me the chance, somehow I don’t think May’s gonna be all that forgiving once she finds out I’ve had you all this time.” He doubts any of them will be forgiving but May’ll be first out of the gate. She left the job half-done at CyberTek and that kind of thing doesn’t sit well in their line of work.

Simmons’ eyes trail down to the floor without really seeing anything on the way. “Of course.”

He’s not sure what that means, but he doesn’t like it, that’s for sure. He wraps his arm around her shoulders again and starts them back towards the food court; if 33 hasn’t found a face she likes yet, she can find one on the road.

Truth is, even though this is sure to end with SHIELD trying to kill him (again), he’s enjoying it. Between Simmons’ worry - reluctant as it may be - and her treating him like an actual human being, it’s almost like being back on the Bus again. Maybe all he needs is kidnapping road trips with all the old team. A few days stuck with him and maybe even Skye would-

His fingers tighten on Simmons’ shoulder. Skye’s not gonna change her tune. She hates him, plain and simple. She made that clear in LA but he was too blinded by his own stupid feelings to see it. He’s got three still-healing gunshot wounds to his side that _prove_ what she’s been saying all these months and he’s just gotta accept it.

There’s never gonna be a him and Skye.

The thought leaves a hollow in him and he pushes it down. He’s never gonna be a part of the team again either (Coulson made that clear enough; the guy who’s all about second chances can’t even stand to _look_ at him) but he’s not alone. He’s got 33, who needs him, and Simmons, who’s coming around. He always knew she was a soft touch. That death threat was just anger and frustration, never anything serious. If he’d been smart, he would’ve played her from day one in that cell instead of focusing all his attention on Skye.

Oh well. Hindsight’s 20/20 and all that.

“So what next?” Simmons asks. “You’ve let 33 have her fun, is there more to that plan or are we still traveling aimlessly?”

Aimlessly sounds about right but he’s not about to tell _her_ that. It’s on the tip of his tongue to make a joke about the plan being above her clearance when his eye catches on a familiar face on one of the TV screens in an electronic store window.

“Oh,” he says, pulling her to a stop beside him, “there’s a plan.”

His dark tone catches her attention and she follows his stare.

“ _No_ ,” she says.

“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun.”

“Ward,” she hisses, “you are _not_ killing him.”

He’s hurt, he really is. “That’s not why we’re going.”

She draws her mouth into a thin line, unimpressed. “That’s not a denial.”

He squeezes her to his side and looks back to the screens. There’s no sound out here, but the headline at the bottom of the screen tells the story well enough. _Former hacktivist speaks before Congress on continuing SHIELD threat._

“I think,” Grant says, “we should get in touch with our old friend.”

Simmons doesn’t seem to agree, but lucky for him she’s not calling the shots here.

 


	7. [location unknown]

The steady movement of the car is soothing and the air’s all sun-warmed from a few hours on the road. It’s nice, definitely one of Grant’s top ten sleeps of the last decade that didn’t involve an honest-to-God bed, and he lets the dreamy haze hold him down a while longer than he needs.

There’s no hurry. Miles’ Washington press tour is gonna last until the weekend, leaving them plenty of time for the drive to Houston. And it’s not like there’s anything for Grant to do while they drive. When 33 feels like it, she can switch, but until then he’s good to nap.

Only … he thought he was _sleeping_. For real sleeping through the night. So how the hell is the sun shining through the windshield?

He drags in a deep breath, lets it lift him up so he can take a look around. Nothing but trees and highway outside, only a few cars bothering with this stretch of nowhere. 33’s still behind the wheel, still wearing the pretty, young coed’s face she picked up in Savannah. He twists - both to stretch out his muscles and to check on Simmons - and goes cold.

The backseat’s empty.

Not completely empty - it’s piled with all the crap they’ve picked up on this road trip - but there’s no Simmons.

“33,” Grant says slowly. “Where is Simmons?”

Her mouth opens, only to close up again. Images of SHIELD descending flit through his head, Coulson standing over him with a gun demanding to know if Grant really thought he could just leave Simmons on the roadside and they wouldn’t find him.

Of course, the picture of Simmons on the side of the road also reminds him of Martinez, that there are plenty of men out there who’d be only too happy to take advantage of a young woman alone.

“Where is she?” he asks again, louder. When she doesn’t answer immediately he yells, “ _Where the hell is Jemma?_ ”

Something knocks at the back of the car and they both jump.

“She’s in the trunk,” 33 says, gripping the wheel.

Okay, that’s… Okay.

He sits back in his seat and gestures to the next turn off. “Get us off the road.” Simmons is alive and still with them. This is fine. Everything’s fine. By the time they get far enough into the woods he can get her out (what the hell was 33 _thinking_? Maybe he should’ve been more concerned with breaking her programming), his heart should’ve slowed down and everything will be just fine.

33 does as she’s told, but she’s obviously not happy about it.

“What happened?” Grant asks. When they left Savannah everything was fine. 33 had a new face. Simmons was a little mopey about his decision to pester Miles, but he’d bought her every science magazine in Barnes and Noble before they left the mall, so it’s not like she was destitute over it. She even gave him her milkshake to finish after dinner. 

“She tried to kill you.”

For a second, Grant’s sure he’s misheard her what with the change in the tread under the tires as they pull off the highway. But 33’s face says it all.

“What?” he asks. His heart’s slowing down, but it’s leaving an ache in his side; probably he pulled his stitches when he turned around.

33 drags in a wet breath. “I stopped to use the bathroom, but you were still sleeping. I- I think she drugged you, but I don’t know… She said it’d be fine, I should just go on ahead and not wake you or you’d be grumpy like at the hotel. She said she’d watch you. And when I came back…”

She trails off, either because she just doesn’t wanna say it or because the road’s getting too rough and needs all her attention. Grant’s glad; he doesn’t want to hear more.

He lets the pain radiating from his side fill him up more and more with each jostle of the car. Simmons is probably getting pretty bruised back there.

“Here’s good,” he says, loudly so 33 can hear him over the sound of the car. She parks it and kills the engine and waits. In his peripheral vision she looks small, scared. He’d feel bad if he could feel anything at all. “Stay here,” he orders and climbs out.

He’s been ordering her a lot the last few minutes. He’ll have to make that up to her - along with this next thing.

A knock on the trunk has her popping it. Simmons is inside, as promised, restrained with those damn cables she was so eager to get to fix 33’s mask. Her glare loses a little something between the duct tape on her mouth and the way she’s gotta squint against the light.

He cuts the cable at her ankles and lifts her clear out of the trunk. “Let’s go.” He gives her a little shove, in no mood to wait for her to get her feeling back. The slam of the trunk leaves the woods eerie quiet and their footfalls are loud in the underbrush.

He pulls the gun from his jeans and checks it as they move. It’s loaded, ready to go. He doesn’t know why his usual preparedness has him feeling cold.

Except he does. He knows _exactly_ why.

He doesn’t wanna do this.

“Here,” he says when the trees open up. Some rocks lead to a creek down below, and he sits her on one of them before tearing off the tape. Her forehead’s bleeding - it looks fresh, probably from the ride - and he drags his sleeve over the heel of his hand to wipe the worst of it out of her eyes. He has no idea why he does it.

He paces away, needing distance from her. The gun is heavy in his hand, the same way it was when he stood over Buddy. He keeps it at his side. “I want a reason.”

She glares.

“Things were going well. 33’s getting better, you gave her a real face! And we were getting along, I thought-” Well, he was wrong about whatever he thought, that much is obvious. He runs a hand through his hair. “And you screw it all up? For fucking _Miles_?”

“What do you think is going on here?” Simmons asks, voice cutting beneath its softness. “Do you think we’re friends on a road trip together? You _kidnapped_ me.”

“I’ve told you, 33-”

“33 is _broken_!” Simmons yells, coming to her feet. “You can’t hide behind a woman who can’t even decide which color of toothbrush she wants! _You_ are the one making the decisions here - to hold me against my will, to hide me from my friends, to - yes - go after Miles. But he’s not why. You are. Every horrible thing you’ve done, every lie you ever told, every time you _hurt us_. You are a monster, and if I can save Miles or 33 or the team from you by getting a little blood on my hands, I happily will.”

For a heart-stopping minute, all Grant can see is Skye. Skye calling him a Nazi. Skye laying out his crimes down in that cell. Skye hating him while she riddled him with bullets.

“No,” Grant says, shaking his head. He paces away, trying to wrap his head around how he didn’t see it sooner. “This isn’t you. This is Skye and May and-”

“I am perfectly capable of hating the man who _dropped me to the bottom of the ocean_ on my own.”

“I did that to _save you_ -” He comes around and his head lifts up and he freezes. There’s a spot of red shining against the sparkles on her blouse. It’s not blood. It’s a laser sight.

He doesn’t think, he just moves. He hits her as the shot rings out. He can feel the shock of the impact but it’s her body that convulses and her that cries out while they’re still in the air, going over the rocks. He lands on his good side - probably the first bit of luck he’s had since San Juan - and is up before any of his new hurts have time to make themselves known. He pulls her with him, dragging her up against the rocks so they’ve got some kind of cover.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, watching the line between stone and sky for movement. Not that there’s much he’s gonna do if he sees anything; he lost his pistol in the fall.

Simmons twists her injured arm between them, and he looks down to see the deep gash of white on the outside of the cast. The bullet grazed it.

He drops his forehead briefly to her hair and squeezes her shoulders, just glad she’s okay.

“That wasn’t 33,” she says when he pulls back. He can’t put his finger on that tone of hers, but he doesn’t like it; he doesn’t like anything about this situation though, and Simmons’ tone is pretty far down the list.

“No,” he agrees. “And she’s probably not coming to investigate.” She’s gotta know why he brought Simmons out here, no way she’s gonna look into anything she hears. They’re on their own.

Down river’s a safer bet - the highway’s that way - but their rocky cover ends after only a few feet. He pushes her ahead of him upstream.

“Any idea who it was?”

He frowns at her. “Maybe, if someone hadn’t drugged my milkshake, I would’ve noticed a crazed maniac on our tail.”

Her hand’s raised to the rocks, helping her keep steady, and he sees it convulse. “It could be a hunter, angry we’re on his land.”

Grant’s not betting a backyard hunter is using a military-grade laser sight - and even if he were, no one’s drunk enough to mistake a woman’s sparkly shirt for a deer’s flank.

“Make any new enemies while you were trying to kill me?”

Simmons may be ahead of him, but she rolls her eyes emphatically enough he can tell. “Why do you assume they’re after me? Of the two of us, I’m much more likeable.”

“Debatable.” Sure, she’s sunshine and roses, but Grant’s whole _job_ is getting people to like him. Maybe they should test it, find some third party and see who can get him to warm up first. He’d have to be bi though, otherwise one of them would have an unfair advantage over the poor loser. “And since they were aiming for you, I’m guessing it’s-”

She stops at the same time he does. They’re both thinking the same thing: HYDRA.

“Keep moving,” he orders, picking up the pace.

A hundred yards from where Simmons was nearly shot - twice - she yelps when her hand goes right through the rock wall. He pulls her back against his chest, eyes on the swaying leaves covering the rock - or absence of rocks - and ears tuned to the forest around them. He doesn’t hear anyone in the trees up above, but then he didn’t hear them before either.

Simmons squirms out of his grasp and pushes the fall of branches aside, revealing a crude, wooden wall. “What in the world-”

“Oh, thank God,” Grant mutters, recognizing a deer blind when he sees one. “Get in.” He pushes her under the fall of branches and feels blindly for a door to shove her through.

It’s tight and the blind’s not exactly well-made or well-placed - there are at least three winters worth of mold and discoloration coming up to his knees on the walls - but it’s cover, and they’re in desperate need of that right about now.

Only minutes after they’re closed up inside, footsteps sound and dust falls from the roof. Grant holds his breath, hoping whoever it is doesn’t walk on the blind. The sound will give them away even if the whole thing doesn’t cave in on them.

Luck is on his side again though and a body leaps lightly down into the shallow water. The open slat in the wall gives them a great view as their hunter - not the recreational kind, his leather jacket is _not_ made for a day in the woods - searches the area.

Simmons’ hands fist in the back of Grant’s jacket and though her breathing’s quiet, he can feel it burning a hole between his shoulder blades.

Finally, the guy moves off, but neither of them relax until Grant speaks, “You know him?”

He can just make out her face in the dim light coming through the slat and sees her shake her head. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“Damn. That means he’s a professional.” The rifle he was carrying certainly was.

Grant takes another look out, trying to see further down the direction the guy ran off while he thinks about the best way to get it off him.

“What are you doing?” Simmons asks. Her voice is whisper soft but no less accusatory for it.

As he hasn’t actually figured out a plan yet, he assumes she means in general. “Saving our lives.” 

“You brought me out here to kill me, why save me from someone else? Why not just hand me over and claim your reward?”

Right. He almost forgot.

He pulls a knife from inside his jacket. She tries to jump back, but there’s not enough space in here for that, and he catches her hands easily. This cable’s thicker than the other and a bitch to cut - they’re gonna have to get some rope or zip ties if they’re gonna be tying up more people, which is pretty likely since they’ve still got that visit to pay Miles - giving Simmons plenty of time to give him the old doe eyes.

“I wouldn’t have shot you,” he says softly.

“You honestly expect me to believe that? Why drag me out here then? Just to scare me?”

He gets the last of the cable untangled, and her hands drop. He brushes gentle fingers over the cut on her forehead. It’s scabbed over but there’s still plenty of blood on that pretty face of hers. A year on the Bus, she never looked this bad, but a few weeks alone with him and this is one of the least injuries she’s suffered. He’s gonna have to start taking better care of her.

“Why go to all the trouble of drugging me if you weren’t gonna follow through?” he asks. 

“33 stopped me-”

“Uh-uh,” he cuts in. “33 said she went to the bathroom - and you’re too smart to try unless you knew you had enough time. You know every artery in the human body, all you’d need is a few seconds.”

She looks at him the way she did after Coulson was kidnapped, when Ace had finally fallen asleep with his head pillowed in Skye’s lap and they were all sitting around, waiting for orders from the higher-ups. She looked at him like she was on the edge of something and she needed to know he’d catch her.

Well this time he will.

“You couldn’t kill me,” he says, “and I couldn’t kill you. And as far as I’m concerned, that makes us even.”

She starts to shake her head, so he takes her by the arms to stop her.

“Which is good,” he goes on, “because you’re gonna have to trust me for this plan to work.”

With his hands on her, he can feel her deflate a little at that. He smiles.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Simmons doesn’t like the plan, and it’s really hard to argue with her because Grant doesn’t like it much either. But it’s the only plan they’ve got and they’ve only got one shot at it, so he lays it out and leaves before she can talk him out of it.

That’s the trusting him part. She’s gotta be alone for this to work - and maybe it’d work just as well if she didn’t trust him, but he needs her to. He can leave Simmons alone and scared in the woods with a maniac, but he can’t do it if she doesn’t believe he’s gonna come back for her. Again.

It takes the asshole twenty minutes to decide he missed them and circle back. He comes down the creek bed at a steady jog and, when his footsteps fall a little too hard outside the blind, there’s a frightened little sob from inside.

The asshole slows, he stops, he comes back around nice and slow. He moves his rifle to his back and pulls a machete from his hip.

Simmons screams when he cuts through the branches hiding the blind, and then the bastard is inside. He laughs while Simmons cowers and calls her foul words while he threatens her in Spanish. He drops to one knee over her, machete held lightly in his hands like he’s deciding just the right place to start.

He never chooses.

Quiet as a ghost, Grant sneaks up behind to lower the remains of the cable around his neck. Simmons stops her cowering and jams the knife he left her into the guy’s forearm. His hand spasms and the machete drops to the ground with a dull thump.

He tries to fight, and Grant drags him backward out the door - both to get him away from Simmons and to get his feet out from under him so he can’t get the leverage he needs.

“You really don’t recognize this guy?” Grant asks once he’s got him in the sunlight.

Simmons takes a long look at the bulging eyes and throbbing veins. “No,” she says with a single shake of her head.

“Damn.” Grant pulls the asshole’s head further back so he can look him in the eye. “That means we’re gonna have to keep you alive. But my ICER’s in the car…” Suffocation’ll knock the guy out soon enough, but it’s way too easy to go too long, and if he does, there go their answers. “Grab that rock-” he starts, nodding to one big enough she won’t have to put a whole lot of force behind it. But she’s already got one and gives him a nod. He gives the cord a little more slack so the bastard falls forward, and Simmons swings. The guy lands in a heap in the water.

“Nice,” Grant pants.

“What was he saying?” she asks, her eyes on the blood flowing from the wound she caused. “When he came after me?”

Grant hesitates - what he said was anything but nice - but he and Simmons have, he hoped, reached a new understanding; he’s gonna try to be honest. For a little while at least.

“He was gonna cut your head off. Slowly,” he adds, figuring she deserves to know - and that she’s less likely to take pity if she knows how much he was gonna enjoy her dying.

“Oh. We’re really keeping him with us?”

Grant shrugs. “We still need to know why he was after you, so yeah.”

“All right then.” She drops the rock on the guy’s knee, and it makes a definite crack. “ _He_ can ride in the trunk this time.”

Grant winces, both proud and very glad they’ve put their differences aside. “Carry the weapons?” he asks, figuring now’s as good a time as any to put his faith in her, seeing as she put hers in him - and it doesn’t hurt that this is a pretty safe situation to test her.

She takes the rifle and grabs the machete from the blind, and Grant searches the body for more to hand over to her before hoisting the guy over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “Hurry,” she says, not unkindly. “33 will be worried.”

That’s one weight off Grant’s mind - 33’s like a puppy, she wouldn’t take it well if Simmons was angry with her for the whole trunk thing.

Thinking of that and the asshole on his shoulder, Grant resolves to stop at the next gas station pass; they’re gonna need those zip ties sooner than he planned.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I know nothing about medicine, I have tried to be more honest than the show is about certain injuries with this fic. That said, I think the MCU has pretty well established that humans in that universe have super strong skulls and that while people can be knocked out by single blows to the head, nobody dies from head wounds ever.


	8. Houston

The diner’s good for a meet - open all night, caters all characters - but that’s not why the guy in the third booth is here, hence his very unhappy expression when he sees Grant walking up.

Grant gives him a smile and opens his hands a little, just to show he’s not intending on causing any harm. “Hey,” he says as he gets closer, “who woulda thought I’d run into you here?”

“Who woulda thought,” the guy says through gritted teeth.

“Derrick?” the woman across from him asks. _She’s_ why Derrick - using his real name, bold - is so unhappy to see Grant. Or maybe it’s just that whole HYDRA thing, who’s to say?

Derrick recovers quick, shoots her a smile. “This is Grant, an old friend from college.” His expression falls. “Your brother’s not coming, is he?”

To the woman it sounds like there’s bad blood there, but to Grant it’s a clear message that Derrick knows exactly who’s responsible for Christian’s death.

“Nah,” Grant says easily. “You know him, married to his job. He won’t be moving anytime soon. But, since I’ve got you here - not that I mean to be a bother,” he adds, looking apologetically to the woman, “but do you have a minute? I’ve been dying to talk to somebody about Johnny.”

The scar on Derrick’s cheek, the spot they never could get the nerves lined up right again, twitches. “I’m sorry, Jen,” he says, “but this is kinda important. Johnny’s … he’s-”

Jen pats his hand. “I’ll go freshen up. You boys take your time and maybe I’ll come back with pie.”

Derrick watches her go with big old moon eyes that disappear entirely when Grant slides into her place. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t put a bullet in your skull right now.”

“So you heard,” Grant says, snagging an onion ring from Jen’s plate.

“ _Everyone_ heard. If it hadn’t been _completely obvious_ when John Garrett turned out to be a fucking _head_ , it was when your brother outed you on national TV. So I say again: give me one good reason.”

“I’m not in town to make your life hell, Embrey-” Grant double dips in the ranch dressing, just because he can- “I’m here to do that to Miles Lydon.”

Derrick’s quiet for a long time - tellingly long given what his question is. “What does HYDRA want with him?”

Grant shrugs carelessly. “I don’t know that they do. I’m here for me. I’m not gonna hurt him,” he says quickly, figuring Embrey’s the sort to have the same kinds of reservations Simmons does, “but he’s the best in the business, and I need his help.”

“So you’re gonna rough him up a little to get it.”

Remembering all the trouble Miles caused last year, Grant says, “Maybe more than a little.”

Derrick doesn’t immediately shoot him down - that’s encouraging. The lie in his response isn’t. “So why come to me?”

“Come on. I know you went into private security and I know your jackass boss has you working Lydon’s detail when he’s in town.” Grant’s never met the guy, but he feels confident calling him a jackass; he’s gotta know Derrick’s former SHIELD, and Miles has made no secret he wants every agent locked up, no matter which side they came out on in the end.

Derrick looks away, obviously fighting with himself about whether or not he should even be listening to this. Grant can see Jen’s reflection in the windows and Derrick gives her a smile.

Grant decides to give him a little nudge. “Come on, Embrey, you know that little shit deserves it.”

“Doesn’t mean he deserves _you_. I read the coroner’s report on your family. That’s messed up, man.”

“You gonna give me the intel or not?” Grant reaches for another onion ring and Derrick swats his hand away.

“He’s got an apartment on Gray,” he says tightly, eyes on Jen, “but what most people don’t know is it’s a front. He goes in his apartment then takes a trapdoor to the one below, that’s where he really lives.”

“Is there a security code on either of these apartments?”

Derrick gives him a look. “2814 and 3769, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got it set up to text him whenever the code’s put in.”

“Not a problem.” Grant hopes. Computers aren’t Simmons’ thing, but she’s no slouch either. They should be able to work it out.

“His flight gets in at four in the morning, so you’ve got a few hours to make yourself at home. And don’t worry about us. Lydon never invites any of his bodyguards in, so as long as you’re inside before he is, you’re good to go.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it. Tell Jen I said sorry for stealing her time.”

Derrick catches Grant’s arm before he can slide out of the booth. “I ever see you again, I even _think_ I see a HYDRA agent anywhere _near_ her-”

“Hey,” Grant cuts in before he can finish, “I remember what that right hook of yours feels like. I won’t be bothering you again.”

“Good.” There’s a whole lot of threat in that one tiny word. Grant makes himself scarce.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It is a pain in the ass getting into Miles’ apartment. Simmons makes quick work of the security system, just like Grant knew she would, but it’s the damn assassin that gives them trouble. He’s still sleeping off the ICER rounds Grant put in him when they stopped for zip ties, and getting him up the stairs to the apartment and then _down_ the stairs to the _actual_ apartment is a bitch and a half.

When Grant finally collapses on the couch, he’s really regretting not just shooting him in the woods and figuring the murder attempt out later.

Simmons tears herself away from the wall panel - she’s trying to put the system back together so Miles won’t realize something’s up - and sits down beside him. She pulls at his shirt, and he’s too damn tired to do more than groan and lift his arm along the couchback so she can see.

“You’re doing better,” she says with a faint smile. “No tears.”

He brushes her bangs aside. “Wish I could say the same for you.” The bandage she’s wearing over that cut on her forehead is big, makes it look like she’s worse off than she is.

She looks away, turning from his touch. “I’m fine.”

“Some psycho tried to murder you in the woods. That’s the textbook definition of ‘not fine.’”

“Oh, and which textbook is this?” She may still be looking away from him - in fact she’s focused on the bastard duct taped to Lydon’s la-z-boy - but she’s settled in pretty well on the couch next to him. Considering that she tried to murder him in the very recent past, that’s a big turnaround.

She’s sure to feel his shrug. “Something about horror movies maybe.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it is heavy. It can’t not be when there’s so much shit weighing on both their minds.

“Hey,” he says, dropping an arm behind her shoulders on the couch. She turns to look at him. “I’m gonna take care of this guy, okay? Whatever the reason he’s after you, I’ll handle it.”

She stares for a long time and he’s gotta admit, it’s eerie. There was a time when he could read Simmons like a book - when she invited him to - but now he can’t even tell when she’s planning on murdering him. She’s changed.

33 comes in then. She’s wearing a face she picked up on the road, which is just as well because with the way she’s been smiling every time she’s seen Simmons alive and well since they walked out of those woods, it’d be freaky if she was wearing May’s. She also reports that the building perimeter’s clear of any suspicious characters; time to lock this place down.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He’ll never admit it, but Grant always liked Coulson’s flare for the dramatic.

“Holy fuck!” Miles yells, seeing Grant waiting in his armchair when he comes down the stairs.

“Hello, Miles,” Grant says calmly. 33, back to looking like May, steps up behind Miles, her ICER aimed calmly at his head.

“Fuck,” he groans and lets himself be forced into the chair across from Grant.

“Don’t bother trying to use some panic button or anything. The only things working in here are land lines.”

Miles rolls his eyes. “So HYDRA’s sent my apartment back into the dark ages? Awesome.” He gives Simmons, seated on the corner of the couch closest to Grant, a derisive look and then turns his attention to their mystery assassin. “Who’s he?”

“That’s what I was gonna ask you. He attacked us just after we crossed the state line and I’d like to know why. Figured you could do one of those facial recognition searches Skye’s so fond of, compare him to law enforcement records.”

A muscle in Miles’ jaw twitches at the mention of Skye, and Grant’s smile becomes a little easier to fake; it’s nice not being the only one suffering from that particular wound.

“You dragged him all this way just to ask me? You couldn’t threaten some cop or something?”

Grant shrugs carelessly. “Could’ve. But we were coming to see you anyway.” He lets that sit, just long enough to watch Miles stiffen with fear. “I need some intel on an agent.”

Now it’s Miles’ turn to shrug. “Everything’s out in the open since HYDRA happened. Just google it.”

“We both know that’s not true. The second SHIELD’s data banks got dumped on the web, people started cleaning up the mess. There’s a lot out there for the finding, but not everything.” Definitely not this. Even if some loyal SHIELD agent didn’t bother with it while the organization was tearing itself apart, HYDRA definitely would’ve gotten to it.

Miles sags in his chair. “Okay, so what’s the guy’s name?”

“Agent 33.” Grant ignores the shocked looks he’s getting from the girls. “I want everything.”

“And what do I get out of this deal?”

For a genius, he’s not especially smart. “The satisfaction of knowing you helped a couple old friends? Your continued ability to breathe? Take your pick.”

Miles isn’t the only one rolling his eyes at that. Simmons throws him a look, one he returns steadily.

“And when I’ve told you everything you wanna know?” Miles asks. “What then?” There’s a definite edge to his voice. It’s not anger, it’s fear. Eight months in a communist country with no usable skills and no grasp of the language will instill plenty of that.

“We walk away,” Grant says kindly. “All I want is the intel. You give me that, I don’t see any reason to make your life more difficult than it needs to be.”

There’s a threat in there and Miles is a smart enough guy to see it, but he’s liking the promise. He’s on the edge of saying yes.

“A little insurance would be nice,” he says.

Grant sighs. “I’m gonna have to let you access a computer, right? Your insurance is that at any point you could tip off the authorities we’re here.”

“And you’re willing to risk that?”

“Got no choice. Now. What’s it gonna be?”

He considers it - but then Grant’d be worried if he didn’t - and in the end it’s a look at Simmons that decides him. “You’ll really let me live?” he asks her.

She’s surprised to be included in the conversation and looks to Grant. Her expression hardens into a clear warning he’d better keep his word. “Yes. We will. Please, I promise we’re only trying to help.”

Miles sighs. “Yeah, not that that’s worth much coming from a turncoat, but at least you’re better than him.” He jerks his chin towards Grant and rises from his chair while Simmons is still trying to recover. “Let’s get this over with.”

Grant gestures after him, ordering Simmons to follow. Miles is too weak to really try anything, but if he does, the only one of them who’s got half a chance of seeing it in all that code is her.

Once they’re in the next room with Miles typing away - and loudly complaining about the situation - 33 takes Simmons’ spot on the couch. She’s staring at him with the most earnest expression he’s ever seen on May’s face and it’s obvious she wants to say something but has no idea what, so he takes pity and gives her a shrug.

“It’s getting kind of awkward calling you 33 all the time.”

She isn’t fooled at all and uses those elite agent skills of hers to tackle him into a hug. She squeezes him tight. “Thank you,” she breathes against his neck.

“I told you I’d help you,” he says, forcing his tone to keep light. He eases her off him so he can breathe again and then shifts, getting his injuries back into a more comfortable position. “I’m just sorry it’s taken so long.”

“You _have_ helped me,” 33 says, still looking so damn earnest.

Through the door to Miles’ office, Simmons is lit up by the wall of screens and watches them with a small smile. He answers it with a pointed look; she’s supposed to be watching Miles. For a beat she’s got this fond look on her face like she used to wear on the Bus when she thought his orders meant to keep them all alive were adorable, but then it’s gone. She turns back to Miles, a determined set to her shoulders.

“You and Jemma,” 33 adds, now looking at her hands in her lap. “You’ve helped me so much. There are things-” She glances at the assassin. “I never could’ve done the things I can now, if it weren’t for the two of you.”

“Hey,” Grant says gently. “You did the right thing, tying Simmons up.”

She looks surprised he’d say it so he goes on.

“She may not have all the training we’ve got but she’s the smartest person I know and that makes her dangerous. Locking her in the trunk was maybe a little much,” he admits, pitching his tone to make it a joke - 33 doesn’t laugh, “but you made the right call. _You_ did that. All on your own. I’m proud of you.”

She beams and it’s still freaky to see May like that, so he asks her to watch the assassin and heads for the office.

“-arents,” Simmons is saying softly as he approaches. He slows his steps, wanting to hear more.

“Yeah?” Miles sounds pleased by whatever she’s told him, but the asshole’s tone sours immediately. “And how would you know that? Best case scenario, you’re spying on her. Worst case, you kidnapped her because I _know_ Skye’d never go along with your group-think, world domination bullcrap.”

“I-” Simmons gapes, too stunned by the accusation to answer it for a whole count of five. “I am _not_ HYDRA.”

Miles scoffs. “Yeah, I can see that.” He lets his hand drift off to a nearby keyboard and the screen closest to Simmons shows her HYDRA ID badge. “That’s why you’re hanging around with HYDRA’s poster boy out there.”

“It’s - complicated.” She frowns in a way that makes Grant wish she’d explain how, exactly, it’s complicated.

“Right. At least I don’t have to worry about him and Skye anymore. I feel sorry for that little guy though, the one who was always looking at you with the heart eyes? He must’ve been heartbroken when you defected - assuming he survived.”

The last syllable has barely left Miles’ mouth before the crack of skin against skin silences his typing.

“I’m sorry,” Simmons says. Her hand fists at her side and Grant doesn’t blame her, that sounded like it hurt. Miles, who’s gingerly working his jaw, he feels less sorry for. “But you don’t talk about Fitz. Ever.”

Miles gives her a long, measuring look. “Okay.”

Simmons nods once and eases back. Her ID, still smiling at all of them, catches her attention and she angrily closes the image.

Grant waits a beat, lets her cool down a little, before stepping fully into the room. “So how’s it going in here?”

Miles points to one side, his other hand still typing away. The printer in that corner of the room comes to life and starts spitting out pages. “That’ll be everything on your kidnapping victim.”

Simmons twitches like she wants to hit Miles again. Grant hides his grin by watching the printer.

“As for your mystery agent, I’m still working on it. There’s a lot of stuff all over - most of it hidden.”

“A photo would be good,” Simmons says softly, “if you can find one.”

If Miles thinks that’s weird or worrisome, he doesn’t give any sign, just keeps working. Once the printer stops, Grant grabs the pages and heads for the living room. He touches Simmons’ shoulder on the way out, a brief grip meant to reassure her, and is rewarded when she relaxes a hair before he pulls away.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

An hour later, when the sun is just starting to rise outside, Miles and Simmons finally emerge from the office. Simmons tries to hand a thick stack of pages to 33, but she shakes her head. Simmons smiles kindly and sits next to her, thigh-to-thigh, the pages held securely on her lap.

Grant barely gives the touching little scene a glance, he’s still staring at the first batch of files, even though by now he‘s read them all twice. “Simmons,” he says, “how much longer until our friend wakes up?”

She sobers and looks to the assassin - one Guadalupe Tejada, according to his FBI, CIA, Interpol, and PMF files - before saying, “Another hour at least. Why?”

33’s already got an ICER out, ready to put another round in the guy. Grant drops the files on the table and reaches for it. She hands it over without the least hesitation. He takes the safety off and shoots Miles in the chest. Simmons jumps when Miles slumps over the arm of his chair, but other than that the girls’ only reactions are identical looks of shocked accusation. (Most of the accusation, obviously, coming from Simmons.)

“Can you delete his hunt for 33 from his systems?” Grant asks.

“Yes,” Simmons says, “but why-”

“Do it. And maybe run a few more searches on Las Rojas - the organization, where they’re operating out of, who’s running things - especially Martinez.”

“Martinez?” She looks a little pale.

“Yeah,” he says reluctantly. “That’s who he’s working for.”

Now she looks a little sick. Damn.

“We’ll take care of this,” he says. “I told you I’d handle it. But right now I need you to fill Miles’ computers with every bit of info on them you can. Okay?”

She nods and hurries into the office, leaving 33’s files on the coffee table. 33 doesn’t even glance at them. 

“What do we do?” she asks.

“We clean up.”

 


	9. I-10

They drive all day. Or 33 drives all day.

And isn’t that annoying? Still calling her 33 when her real name is literally sitting in the front seat next to her. But thanks to her excitement over that, she’s the most awake of any of them after the last couple days and takes over driving while Grant and Simmons nap in the back.

Simmons was surprised when he climbed in after her - and so was he, to be honest. It’s one thing letting her look at his wounds and sitting with her when they’re both fully conscious, but after what she pulled, he should probably be keeping his distance when he’s gonna be asleep. It’s strategic though. 33 can wear a face that’s never been anywhere near Miles Lydon, but he and Simmons are both already wanted fugitives. Best they stick to the shadows of the back seat for the drive out of Houston.

How that drive ends with Simmons tucked securely into his chest when 33 pulls them into a roadside motel, he has no idea, but he’s taking it as a sign she’s not as poisoned against him as her murder attempt implies.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I _said_ I never wanted to see you again,” Derrick says.

“And that’s why I decided to call.” Grant props his feet up on the motel bed - his bare feet since he’s got his own bed in the room next door and he doesn’t wanna fuck up the sheets. Simmons is curled up on the other twin, still sleepy from the drive, and Kara - Kara Lynn Palamas, 29, born in Sinaloa - is locked in the bathroom with the glossy photo Miles printed out for her, leaving him more or less to himself for this conversation.

“Yeah, creepily getting my phone number is way less invasive.”

Grant makes a noise of non-apology. They both know the line of work they’re in, and getting someone’s phone number is one of the least creepy things they do. “How’re you liking your gift?” he asks, hoping to change the subject.

Derrick’s voice drops and starts to echo like he’s turned into a corner. “Oh, you mean the weeks of paperwork, depositions, and headache you dropped in my lap?”

Grant grabs the remote from between the beds and turns on the TV. The brief burst of sound before he can mute it has Simmons rolling towards him in her sleep, but her eyes remain shut.

“Yeah,” Grant says, not the least apologetic. On the news, cops and feds are milling about in front of Miles’ building. There’s a shot from earlier of him being helped out under Derrick’s arm, followed by a frozen shot of the cops forcing Tejada into a car. “The promotion I got you.”

Derrick scoffs. Rude. Grant went to a lot of work to set it up for him. When the feds take a look at Miles’ computers - and oh, they have gotta be _loving_ the excuse to get their hands on those, Grant kinda wishes he had someone to lord that favor over - it’ll look like he was investigating Las Rojas because he knew they’d put a hit out on him. Which they obviously did, why else would a member of Miles’ private security have shown up at his apartment to find one of the gang’s most lethal assassins standing over the poor kid’s unconscious body? Very sad. Everyone’s just lucky Derrick was there. Such a hero.

“I bet Jen’s gonna be impressed,” Grant adds, hoping the reminder he’s gonna get all sorts of sex out of this will help the guy’s mood.

“I will kill you, man.” There’s no malice in it, only the calm promise between two trained killers.

“You’re welcome,” Grant says and hangs up. They’re even now; he’s not gonna bother Derrick ever again - unless he really needs something, anyway.

He watches the muted news coverage for a few more minutes, thinking. When it turns to some fluff piece about a local animal shelter, he turns it off and looks to Simmons.

“Just because he’s gone doesn’t mean the threat is.” If they’re lucky, Tejada’s phone and the searches left on Miles’ computers will lead the feds to Martinez and take care of the issue. But all it takes is a look at Simmons’ arm to tell him how much luck’s been on their side lately.

Simmons’ eyes open easily. “They’re after me. I’d be safer inside SHIELD.”

“I’m not so sure.” Grant bends over the side of the bed to grab one of the stacks of paper off the floor. Kara got pretty far into organizing the files before she discovered the photo in the middle of it all. He props the pages against his knees and flips through a couple before finding what he’s looking for. “According to Bakshi’s report, they found Kara in a SHIELD safe house.”

“That doesn’t mean the base-”

“Agent Morse gave them the location.” He glances at Simmons. “To prove her loyalty.”

For a second, she looks like she’s really bothered by it - and he can kind of understand why, considering him and all - but then she shuts down. “No.”

“It’s right here.” He waves the page at her.

“And it’s a HYDRA file. It could easily be a lie. Bobbi wouldn’t-” Simmons looks to the bathroom door. “ _No_.” She curls into a tighter little ball.

“Why?” he asks, throwing his legs over the side of the bed to better face her. “Because she’s your friend? Because you trust her? Because she saved-”

He stops, realizing suddenly _exactly_ why Simmons doesn’t want it to be true.

He drops to his knees in front of her. “It’s not your fault if she is.”

She’s still got that defiant look on her face. “Coulson sent Bobbi undercover to protect me. He would never have allowed her to sacrifice another agent for my sake.”

Grant’s not so sure about that. Coulson might be too much of a soft touch to make the kind of trade they’re talking about, but he absolutely would prioritize Simmons over Kara if it came down to a choice of who to protect. Kara was SHIELD, yeah, but Simmons is part of Coulson’s _team_ , the desperate little family he formed to feel relevant after his brush with death. Even Grant’s got a hard time believing he’d order Morse to give up that intel, but would he really fault her for it after the fact? If it protected Simmons? Grant’s thinking no.

“I’m still not sending you back to SHIELD,” he says. “Not when I don’t know you’ll be safe.”

She glares while he stands and he chooses to ignore her muttered, “Because I’m so much safer here.” In part he ignores it because he feels that bad for her, but mostly it’s because Kara’s standing outside the bathroom, smiling her very own smile.

Simmons sits up. “Oh, _Kara_.”

Kara’s grin broadens and she holds Grant’s gaze, waiting for him to pass judgment. “You look great,” he says.

Simmons kicks his ankle lightly and hurries around the beds to give Kara a hug. “You look beautiful. Like you.”

Kara beams.

Simmons drags her onto one of the beds and starts talking about clothes and make-up and what’ll suit her best. Grant just rolls his eyes and heads for the door connecting their rooms.

“Don’t talk too long,” he says, “we’re leaving in the morning - the _early_ morning.”

“Why?” Kara asks.

“I’d rather we not settle in one place too long in case Miles decides to mention us to the feds. We get a few hours sleep and we’re gone, okay?”

Simmons nods and Kara gives him one of those meaningful looks that makes a whole lot more sense now that it’s not coming from May. He smiles and leaves them to their girl talk.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He wakes up when the door opens. “Something happen?” he half-slurs, sitting up. It’s still dark out and, while he’d planned on them leaving while it was, one in the morning is a little earlier than he wanted.

“No.”

Simmons. He wraps his arms loosely around his knees as she approaches. She’s tentative, not sure she should be here. “What’s wrong?” he asks gently, figuring it has something to do with Morse.

She sits on the edge of the bed, close to him. Real close. Kind of inappropriately close considering. He gets out maybe a syllable’s worth of a question as to what she’s doing before her fingers brush his chest. After that it’s all he can do to keep his mouth shut.

He’s not gonna moan over Simmons touching him. He doesn’t think of her that way, more like the annoying little sister he never wanted. Her palm follows her fingers, traveling up and over his shoulder. There’s some small voice in his head asking if that wasn’t exactly how he thought about Skye those first few months, but he doesn’t have time to formulate an answer for it because then Simmons’ mouth is on his.

He hasn’t kissed a woman since Skye - since she _played_ him - and he falls back into it easily. For a minute, it’s like breathing, like downing water after a tough workout, it’s the best thing ever. “Jemma,” he moans, finally letting himself do it because he’s not _blind_ , right? It’s not like he didn’t know how attractive she was or see the way she looked at him on the Bus. Even if she wasn’t the one he wanted to be with, he’s still allowed to want her, isn’t he?

Her tongue is in his mouth and her hip is moving against his thigh, clearly ready for the second act of this little show, and her hands are in his hair, fingernails dragging at his scalp. And that’s where he gets tripped up because there’s no discomfort, no stiff, hard cast brushing at the side of his head.

His hands still on her waist, push her away. “Kara,” he says, his voice a careful balance between firm and gentle.

She sags and he sees her mask shimmer in the dark. “I wanted to thank you,” she says pitifully.

He shakes his head. “You have. Plenty. And you don’t ever need to thank anyone like that.” He doesn’t know - doesn’t _want_ to know - whether it was like that for her in HYDRA. She’s not in HYDRA anymore, she’s free. He scoots back until his bare shoulders touch the headboard. It’s cool, helps ease some of the tension she left in him and the reminder that he’s not gonna be getting that kind of satisfaction tonight sharpens his words. “And what were you thinking being _Simmons_? You’ve got your own face back now.”

She pulls the robe she’s wearing tighter around her shoulders. “I thought you’d want-”

“Want _what_?” he demands, no idea why he’s letting himself be so angry.

“Want to be with her.”

He’s glad for the dark. It means she can’t see him gaping like a fish.

He doesn’t want Jemma. He wants Skye.

Or he did. His side aches dully at the thought of her but that fire, that longing that carried him through all those months in that cell, that’s nowhere to be found. What he feels for her, it still hurts, but it doesn’t consume him, it doesn’t burn.

He shakes his head. None of that matters right here and now because he doesn’t want Jemma. And Kara’s more messed up than he thought if she thinks so.

“You shouldn’t be anyone else,” he says. “I mean - if you have to be, the mask is a valuable tool - but you shouldn’t try to be not yourself. If that makes sense.”

She lifts delicately off the bed. “It does,” she says softly. “Jemma said the same thing. Only better.”

She leaves quickly then. Grant doesn’t sleep a wink until they’re back on the road, heading west.

 


	10. Fuller Ranch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, a warning that in this chapter someone gets tortured. So be prepared for some gross.
> 
> Second, though few, if any, of you will probably remember after so long, I changed a couple details regarding location in the last chapter. It's likely not a huge difference to any of you, but I didn't want anyone who actually knows their Texas geography being confused. So instead of north out of Houston, they headed west. 
> 
> Also, there's a teeny bit of Spanish this chapter. You should be able to hover over it for translations if you need them.
> 
> And a quick note that if you subscribe to this fic and you got notifications for two chapters, I'm sorry. AO3 told me it failed to post this chapter, only for me to discover it had _after_ I'd reposted it.

The sun sits overhead, steady and unforgiving. Grant can relate. He’s been at his perch for just over seven hours now, flat on his stomach with a rifle aimed at the compound a click away. Sweat pools on his back and his hair’s slick with it beneath the camo tarp he brought along. There’s only one thing he wants more at this moment than a cool glass of water with condensation pebbling the sides and ice cubes nestling so tight together they don’t move when he takes a sip: he wants to put a bullet in Martinez’ skull.

The compound is owned by one Juan Guerrero-Marquez, the octogenarian head of Las Rojas across the hemisphere. He lives comfortably and unassumingly on two thousand acres in southern Texas. Pays his taxes. Donates to local charities. Has a pretty little live-in nurse who tends to his every need. And all of that’s in danger now that the feds have scooped up Miles’ computer and one of Las Rojas’ top assassins.

In response, Guerrero-Marquez has summoned every Las Rojas leader in the western world to his ranch for a little powwow. There’s a chance they’ll off Martinez just for causing all this, but Grant’s not willing to take it.

And, frankly, he’s really looking forward to being the one to do it. Not only did this guy come after him, he came after one of his people. Tejada clearly had orders to not only kill Jemma, but kill her brutally. Grant’s taken issue with that. At least when he dropped her to the bottom of the ocean, if she’d died it would’ve been from oxygen deprivation. But cutting off her head? Nuh uh. Unacceptable.

Grant sweeps the northern face of the main house again. He doesn’t expect to see any sign of Martinez in any of the windows but it’s worth a glance. That done, he settles his sight on the main entrance to wait.

“ _Que es éste_?” The barrel of a gun taps the side of Grant’s skull and he closes his eyes, disgusted with himself for letting some asshole get the drop on him. A boot kicks at his hip and Grant uses the opportunity to roll away, swinging his rifle up at - at _Trip_. The rifle’s knocked aside and the butt of Trip’s rifle comes down, straight at his head. He dodges, but only comes up so far as his feet.

Trip’s faster than Grant remembers. In the time it took Grant to stand, he got his rifle turned back around and aimed at him again. With a gesture, he orders Grant to toss his own weapon away and drop to his knees. All of which Grant does because he’s not an idiot.

“What the hell are you-”

Trip holds up a finger and then puts it to his ear. “ _Es una perra_ ,” he says, grinning. Grant just rolls his eyes. “ _Sí, sí. En unos minutos_.” He pulls the comm from his ear and slips it in his pocket.

“What the hell?” Grant asks.

Trip only smiles, his natural warm attitude making the murder in his eyes all the colder. “Man, I’ve only got one question for you.”

“And if I answer it wrong, you shoot me?”

“Eh. Maybe you answer it right, I shoot you anyway. Depends how I feel.”

Fair. Grant can’t say he’d do any different in Trip’s shoes.

The false warmth goes right out of Trip, leaving him stone cold and Grant in real fear for his life for the first time since this little reunion started. “Have you seen her?”

“Who?” Grant asks, genuinely thrown.

“Don’t play that game with me. We both know you’re here for the same reason I am.”

Okay. Grant can work with this. Probably. He just needs to figure out what that reason is first so he doesn’t prove Trip wrong. Luckily, Trip is too eager for answers to play this smart and gives him everything he needs after barely a pause.

“Because that son of a bitch put a hit out on Simmons.”

So maybe they _are_ here for the same reason. Weird. Or not weird, considering the way Trip used to look at Jemma.

Grant shifts on his knees, wishing for a better footing here. “I guess you meant what you said. About crossing off the Clairvoyant?”

Trip’s jaw tightens at the mention of that long ago conversation and at the memory of his dead partner. “Yeah. I did. Sorry Coulson beat me to it.” He waits a beat, lets Grant drink that in. Grant supposes he deserved that, doesn’t piss him off any less though. “But I’m not here to kill him - necessarily.”

“Oh?”

Trip backs up a few steps and lets the barrel of his rifle drop. It’s still between them, still a threat, but not an immediate one. “No one’s seen Simmons since Whitehall had her in San Juan, okay? That hit Martinez put out on her is the first lead we’ve had in weeks. So if he knows something - anything - about where she is or who she’s with, I gotta get it out of him. So have you seen her? Heard anything?”

Grant struggles to hide his surprise. He thought, when Trip said he was here because of the hit on Jemma, he mentioned just her because he doesn’t give a shit about Grant. But if he doesn’t know Grant was with her in Miami, it’s gotta be because Martinez is only gunning for her.

That’s a problem. A big one.

His heart starts beating double-time and his nerves leap to attention, urging him to give in to either fight or flight - or in this case both. Jemma’s back at a motel just outside of El Paso. He can still see her curled away from the pre-dawn light streaming through the thin curtains, cradling her broken arm in her sleep. She looked so small and fragile, he almost didn’t want to go. He whispered a promise to kill Martinez for her and then he left, left her alone with Kara, who he gave orders to keep her locked down until either he shows back up or a week passes.

Because he thought the son of a bitch was after the _both_ of them, that by leaving he’d at least split the focus of the attack, take some of the heat off her so it wouldn’t matter he wouldn’t be there to protect her. But it turns out all he was doing was leaving her alone with only one broken specialist to watch her back.

And Jemma doesn’t know. She has no way of knowing if she tries to run back to SHIELD now - and she will, Grant knows her too well to expect anything less - she’ll be running right into the line of fire. Fuck.

“No,” he says tightly, wondering how he’s gonna get out of this and back to her. He’s already been away for _ten hours_. Anything could’ve happened. “I heard about the hit though, figured I should do something about it.”

“Damn.” Trip looks towards the house.

This is Grant’s opening. He can’t make it to his rifle, not fast enough, but he could get enough speed going to knock Trip down, turn this into a fistfight. He stays where he is.

Trip turns back to him. “Could HYDRA have her?”

Grant shrugs. “They could. But I haven’t been with HYDRA since Whitehall decided to brainwash me.” Trip nods, takes that in like it’s nothing. He really is freaked over Jemma, isn’t he? “What about you?” Grant asks, deciding it’s time he got something out of this conversation. “That wasn’t SHIELD you were talking to.”

Trip chuckles. “Yeah. I haven’t been with them since San Juan either. Not really.” He gives a shrug of his own as Grant waits for an explanation. “I’ve been hunting for her, okay? And when I heard about the hit, I decided to look into it.”

A chill sweeps over Grant. He wonders how close Trip’s been this whole time. Not very if he doesn’t even know Grant’s been with her, but too close.

“So you’re what? With the local police?”

“Feds,” Trip says. “Agent 13 and I go back. She got me in on the deal they’re making with the big boss.”

Makes sense. Grant should’ve guessed Guerrero-Marquez would roll over if the feds came to him with a plea deal, he should’ve expected more people gunning for this place than just him. He let himself get emotional over this whole thing and it made him sloppy. And it’s all the more galling because fucking Trip is right here, thinking it all through with a clear head and a plan and backup. Bastard.

“You wanna help?”

Grant’s gotta run that question through his head a couple times before he believes he really heard it. “Seriously?”

Trip tips his head. “Yeah. I mean, you’re still a traitor and I will kill you if I even think you’re turning on me, but you’re here to protect Simmons, same as me. Far as I’m concerned, she’s worth putting up with your smug face for a while.”

Grant stands - slowly, carefully, so Trip can see he’s not making a move - and smiles. “So we put this-” he gestures between them- “on hold until she’s safe from this guy?”

Trip extends a hand. “Only until she’s safe.”

Grant smiles, he never expected any less. “Deal.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Trip is a spy, through and through. He’s undercover as part of Guerrero-Marquez’ personal security detail and introduces Grant as an old friend and a _fed_ who’s being kind enough as to give him the heads up on an impending sting operation. Grant imagines Agent 13 somewhere in the hills, listening to all of this and cursing the day she ever let Trip talk her into anything.

The cover gives Grant exactly the excuse he needs to keep his head down and one eye out at all times. There’s no telling how many of the guards milling about might recognize him from Miami but one is too many.

This is the single dumbest move Grant’s ever made and he knows it. He should’ve knocked Trip on his ass and made a run for it. It’s not like Trip would’ve wasted the time chasing him down, not with Jemma’s life in the balance. But if Grant can take Martinez out before Trip can realize he had anything to do with her disappearance, she’s safe and he’s safe and everyone wins. Except SHIELD, but Grant doesn’t exactly give a shit about them right now.

“Guerrero-Marquez is taking his afternoon nap,” Trip says to him once they’re in the quiet of the backstairs. “Everyone else is resting from their flights, trying to figure out how to play things at the big meeting tonight. I’m thinking that’s when we make our move.”

“One shot, back of the head sounds good to me.”

Trip shoots him a glare. “I told you. We’re here so this bastard can tell us where Simmons is. _Then_ you can kill him.”

Grant grins at the casual hatred in his tone. Trip might be one of the good guys, but at least he knows his hands are as dirty as Grant’s.

He eases open a door and points, drawing Grant forward. Through the narrow opening, Grant can see a half-dozen men lining the hall, all faces he recognizes.

“Martinez’ room,” Grant breathes.

“Yep. End of the hall there. Tonight, we can sneak in, look through his files, see if there’s anything that might lead us to Simmons.”

Trip gently shuts the door and Grant leans back against the wall beside it. “You thinking she’s in the state? Tejada wasn’t going after Miles.”

“You figured that too?” Trip steps back, leans against the opposite wall. “I don’t know. I don’t know how she got out of San Juan or how she’d get all the way to Houston without once calling in. Or why.” He looks haunted. Scared. Worried.

Grant almost feels guilty. Or maybe that’s just his stomach complaining. Between his sniper’s perch putting pressure on his stitches and not eating all day, it’s not exactly pleased with him.

“I was there when Martinez arrived, made his excuses. You know why he wants her dead?”

Grant shakes his head. He’s dying to find out though.

“She scarred him.” Trip lifts his chin, points to a spot along the edge of his jaw. “She bit him. Right here.”

“Wow.” Grant doesn’t know whether to be impressed or to wring her neck for being so stupid. Whichever one, he’s sure he’ll kill Martinez before he decides either way.

“Yeah.” Trip is obviously going with impressed and grinning like an idiot. “Says he bought her off some guy but she refused to work for him. When he got rough with her, she fought back.” His laughter fades. “His men, they say he went crazy after that. Knocked her down, broke her arm with his bare hands. But she still wouldn’t do it.” He heads up the next set of stairs. “That’s how I know she’s alive, she’s too strong to let this beat her. I just have to find her and get her home.”

Only problem with that is home to Trip means SHIELD and that’s not exactly safe either. Not with Morse running around, giving up agents to HYDRA. Grant doesn’t know what her play is but it stops him from opening his mouth and warning Trip.

Instead, he focuses on the anger that bubbled up during Trip’s little speech and lets it propel him through the door and into the hall.

“ _Hola, amigos_ ,” Grant says. They recognize him pretty much immediately.

The fight is quick and brutal. It’s like breathing or dancing. It all happens so naturally. A blow to the trachea here, the knife from his sleeve in someone’s hand there, grab that gun away fast to keep this quiet as possible, a shattered kneecap, an impaled eardrum, and then there’s Trip running in behind him, helping him finish off the rest.

“What the hell?” Trip pants.

“I don’t wanna wait.” Grant marches past him, over the prone bodies to Martinez’ door. He heads in, ready for another fight with whoever might be inside, but there are only two people. Martinez, who’s gagged and tied to a chair in the center of the room, and-

“Rumlow?” Grant’s only met Brock Rumlow a couple of times and he heard the guy got beat up bad at the Triskelion but this is … _really_ bad. As bad as John’s scars and then some. Grant’s suddenly thankful he only got beat up by May.

“ _Seriously?_ ” Trip demands.

There’s no sound, no pressure at Grant’s back, but he knows Trip’s drawn his pistol. He lifts his hands and backs sideways into the room so he can keep an eye on everyone. “I did not know about this.”

“Yeah. Because I’m just supposed to believe there happen to be two HYDRA agents going after the same guy.”

“Um, A,” Grant says, “I already told you I quit. And B: yes, you are.”

“Could you maybe close the door, Triplett?” Rumlow asks. “I’d really rather no one wander by and see me holding a high-ranking member of an international drug cartel hostage.”

Trip kicks the door shut. Loudly.

“Thanks,” Rumlow mutters. He turns to Grant. “You after this guy too?”

Grant shrugs. “He went after one of my old teammates, Trip’s current teammate.”

“Ah,” Rumlow says, “the girl. Pretty little thing. Can’t say I’m sorry she slipped Tejada’s noose.” He pulls a needle from under one of Martinez’ nails. There are other signs of torture on the guy - cuts too shallow to bleed out, burns, a few bones sitting wrong beneath the skin. It’s bad, but Grant wouldn’t mind seeing worse.

“Is that why you’re here?” Trip asks. “She got away from HYDRA and now you’re trying to find her?”

Rumlow scoffs. “Nah, that was Whitehall’s grudge. Not saying all’s forgiven, but none of the other heads are gonna waste valuable resources looking for one biochemist. I’m here because this guy-” he slaps a hand down on the ugly bulge in Martinez’ forearm- “and his vendetta linked HYDRA with Las Rojas. And the heads are none too pleased about that, especially when the world powers are beginning to see SHIELD and HYDRA as two separate entities. Better for us if they’re busy running after you.”

Trip doesn’t even blink.

“They want an example made.” Rumlow’s hand tightens around Martinez’ arm. The man’s eyes bulge and he screams pitifully against the gag until, with a crunching, squishing sound, Rumlow stops. What he leaves behind is a mess of misshapen and discolored flesh and a hand that doesn’t look like it’ll ever move again.

Grant throws a glance at Trip. They’re both thinking of the same thing and neither of them is sorry.

“What d’you guys want?” Rumlow directs the question at Grant even though he’s the one with the gun still aimed at his head. “Revenge? Because I can promise you some if you stick around.”

“No,” Trip finally lowers his gun. Doesn’t put it away, but lowers it, which is about as much as Grant expects with two HYDRA - or formerly HYDRA in his case - agents in the room. “Answers. Simmons has been missing since the incident in San Juan. We’re trying to find her.”

Grant notes the _we_ \- and so does Martinez. His eyes, still a little too wide from the pain, fly to Grant. Even if Tejada wasn’t checking in while he tracked them, Martinez has gotta know Grant came back that day the Russians attacked and there can only be one reason for that. He’s smart enough to see too that Grant and Trip aren’t on good terms. The old bastard knows he’s lying, keeping Jemma’s location to himself. Damn.

“Well then.” Rumlow reaches for the gag. “Since you were nice enough to take care of the men outside - and I can’t imagine anyone else in this building caring too much if they hear this sick fuck yelling for help - let’s ask him.” He pulls the gag down, revealing Martinez’ gleeful smile.

Trip lifts his gun again, aiming at Martinez’ legs. “You’re gonna tell me everything you-”

The gunshot fills the small room, completely drowning out the sound Martinez’ chair makes when it briefly tips up onto two legs, only to crash back down again. Blood splatters the nicely pressed bed behind Rumlow. Martinez’ head, now with two extra holes in it, lolls lifelessly against his chest.

Trip and Rumlow pin Grant with almost identical looks of rage.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Trip yells. “He was our best lead!”

“Do you not understand the need for _quiet_?” Rumlow yells over him.

Grant ignores Rumlow - because it should be pretty obvious that he doesn’t care - and directs his answer at Trip while he tucks the pistol he stole in the hall back into his jeans. “You also said she’s too tough to go down without a fight. And you were right. She may not be safe and sound with SHIELD, but she’s alive. And now she’s safe from this bastard.”

He hears the words as soon as he says them, realizes his mistake.

“Yeah,” Trip says darkly. “She is.”

“Fuck.” There’s a window directly to Grant’s right, but he runs to the other set on Rumlow’s side of the room, forcing Trip to swing his gun that way. The resulting fight between the two men gives Grant all the time he needs to leap to the grass below.

His stomach protests the fall - and so does just about every inch of him - but his stitches don’t burst and he survives well enough to run around to the front of the building. The guards outside are all either far enough away that they’re focused outward, anticipating an incoming attack, or close enough they ran inside to protect their employers, leaving the way clear for Grant to steal a car left idling in the front drive.

Dimly, he’s aware of the fight going on inside the building. It sounds to be more than just Trip and Rumlow fighting for freedom. With tensions running high between so many factions of the organization, it’s only natural one little murder would spark a whole war.

Grant laughs as he sends the car careening down the dirt road. He really needs to stop saving Jemma by starting gang wars. If only so he can make fewer of these daring escapes.

None of the guards he passes can see well enough to risk shooting at him, but the helicopters and scary government vehicles racing onto the property don’t really give a fuck who they hit. Damn Agent 13.

He abandons the car a quarter mile from the road and heads on foot into the cover of the hills. The sun’s still bearing down hard and soon he’s breathing too heavy to hear whether anyone’s coming. The choppers have moved off, he knows, more interested in the mess at the house than a few low-level guards who’ve slipped through the cracks. But he thinks he can hear an engine running nearby. Someone’s pacing him, waiting calmly for the moment he has to emerge from the brush.

Well, he’ll give them one hell of a fight. He’s not letting them put him in another cell.

He comes out, gun raised, takes aim at the slick, black vehicle turning around the bottom of the hill he’s on. There’s a man in the driver’s seat. If he can hit him…

A gut-twisting crash sends the car careening into the rocks. The car that hit it backs up and turns to get around the wreckage, while a dark-haired woman leans out the passenger side to discourage any still-conscious feds from attacking.

“ _Will you hurry up?_ ” Jemma all but shrieks from the driver’s side.

Grant runs and slides down the hill, sending up dust in his wake. He spares a glance at the fed’s car but it looks like no one inside is up to stopping his escape. Good, means he can focus on the girls.

“ _What do you think you’re doing?_ ” he yells, tearing open the back door. Jemma hits the gas the second he’s inside.

“Saving you!” she snaps right back. “Leaving us alone in that rat trap so you could get your bloody revenge,” she mutters, but he figures from her tone it’s more to herself than him. “Honestly.”

“I was trying to keep you safe.”

“As if I need you to protect me.”

Grant doesn’t bother replying to that. He looks out the back window, searching for signs they’re being followed, and finds none. 13 must not’ve been expecting Trip to drop the hammer quite so soon.

“Did you?” Her voice is quiet.

Grant looks at her pale profile and then meets Kara’s piercing eyes in the side mirror. “Yeah,” he says. “He’s dead.”

Jemma’s good hand twists around the wheel. “Thank you,” she says even more softly.

“Yeah.” He watches her shoulders loosen, her jaw soften. She was really scared. “You too. Both of you.” It would’ve been a long, hard fight to get out of that mess if they hadn’t shown up.

Kara preens and Jemma smiles, just a little.

Grant drops his head against the seat back and lets his thoughts drift to the problems of whether the feds are gonna be gunning for him, whether any of them saw Jemma, where they’re gonna find a less conspicuous car to replace this one.

He doesn’t decide not to mention about Trip, that would imply there was ever a chance he would.

 


	11. the American Midwest

Grant throws a punch, misses, throws up an arm to block, uses the momentum to dodge to the side. A kick comes up and he _drops_. Knees hit the dirt and his legs protest as his shoulders nearly do the same. It hurts, but not as bad as that blow to the head would’ve. He still remembers his first fight with a woman, back at the Academy. Shelly MacDonald knocked him halfway a cross the room with one kick. And it was his own damn fault for thinking the inferior upper body strength was the whole story; he swore he’d never make that mistake again.

But there’s no time to think about the Academy or how sweet MacDonald’s apology make-out in the locker room was. The leg’s barely passed over him when he’s popping up, letting the strain on his muscles propel him straight at the other leg.

It’s not pretty and he does feel kinda bad for the way she hits the ground, but not bad enough to stop him pressing her shoulders into the dirt.

“I win,” he pants.

Kara’s breathing too hard to answer and only nods. He backs up off her, offers a hand to help her up. She shakes her head and loops her arms around her knees, taking a minute.

“Are you all right?” Jemma asks, rushing over.

Grant bites down on his annoyance. Yesterday, when they stopped for another sparring session, Kara beat him. Jemma was watching them then too and was full of _that was amazing'_ s and _I can’t believe you managed that'_ s. At the time, it was good, helped Kara get over her sheepishness about knocking him on his ass. And it’s not like he minded any of the other times Jemma’s fussed over Kara.

He doesn’t know why it pisses him off so much. Maybe it’s the subtle implication that he _would_ hurt her. Maybe it’s that Kara’s a trained fighter - good enough to earn one of SHIELD’s coveted number codenames - and if Jemma knew the first thing about self-defense, she’d know Kara’s perfectly capable of falling without getting hurt.

That in mind, he says, “Come here.”

Jemma freezes and Kara looks at them both like some youtube cat trying to figure out which laser pointer to pay attention to. Grant heads for the car and comes back with two knives. He pockets the larger and holds the smaller out so Jemma can see.

“You hold it here, on this side,” he says, “and like this.” He arches his wrist sharply, bringing the blade swinging out in one smooth motion. Jemma jumps. He folds it back into the handle and presses it into her palm. “You try.”

She hesitates, eyes moving from the knife to him and back again, before finally giving it a go. She fails twice before getting it. Kara applauds from the stump Jemma was sitting on earlier.

“Good,” Grant says. “You can pull it out too, like this.” He grabs the dull edge and swings it open and closed. “But you might not always have time for that, so be sure to practice.”

“You’re giving me this?” she asks.

“Well, yeah.” He thought that was kinda obvious. “You need a way to defend yourself.”

She looks down at it in her palm, hiding her expression from him. This is different than when he gave her the knife to defend against Tejada. This isn’t because there’s some looming threat, this is just in general. Protection.

He realizes all at once that he trusts her. He has to, to do this.

And why shouldn’t he? They had their rough patches, yeah, but she’s his friend and she saved his skin back in Texas. It’s not like this is that big a deal.

“You know every artery in the human body, right?” he asks, shaking off his thoughts and focusing on the matter at hand. “But it’s not gonna do you much good if you can’t reach any of them in a fight.” He pulls out the knife he pocketed and stands next to and slightly ahead of her, his open side to her. “You hold it like this.”

She hesitates again - seriously, why does she have make this so difficult - but eventually matches his stance.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Knife fighting lessons become a regular thing after he and Kara have finished up their matches. Somehow it ends up tradition that Jemma trains with the winner, which is fine with him. Kara’s getting more sure of herself, less scared that one wrong punch is gonna piss him off, and as she does, he sees more and more of the legendary Agent 33 coming out. If he’d known this version of her before, he might’ve been worried sticking to such close quarters with her.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Jemma says when yet another bought ends in Kara dropping her arms.

“You _won’t_ ,” Kara insists. “Now come on, there’s no point in this if you don’t try.”

“She’s right,” Grant says when Jemma still hesitates. He’s sitting on a park bench, alternately tracking Jemma’s progress and keeping a watch for any lookyloos or cops wondering why a couple of women are knife fighting at six in the morning. “What you’re doing here is training your muscles so they know what to do without you thinking. If you don’t let them do it now, they won’t know what to do when you need it.”

She mutters something that sounds like “why can’t I just carry a gun?” and drops into the stance Kara’s been working on with her.

“You can,” Grant says. He’s trusting her with a knife, he can trust her with a gun. “But that’s the first thing someone’ll take from you. The knife is your secret weapon.”

She does better this time. Follows through on all her jabs. Still doesn’t manage to cut Kara, but Grant’s honestly grateful for that. If she _did_ hurt her, she’d probably never pick up the knife again.

It ends early when Kara’s blow lands harder than she means, right on Jemma’s left arm. Kara’s hands fly to her mouth in horror. Grant’s halfway across their little roadside clearing without any memory of how he got there.

“I’m fine,” Jemma says. She’s got the knife closed in her palm while her fingers feel along the length of her cast. She straightens her shoulders. “Yeah,” she says, her voice a little less tight than it was. “It’s fine. I think this is about ready to come off.”

“About time,” Grant says. He’ll be glad to see it gone. Not only is the cast a little more conspicuous than he cares for, it’s a constant reminder of the one time he wasn’t there to protect her.

Her happy smile falls. He wonders, as their eyes meet, if she’s thinking the same thing he is.

But he took care of it. He put a bullet in Martinez’ skull and left things so that if - and that’s a pretty big if - any of what he spent his life building was still standing, it’s been torn apart by his fellow Rojas. Grant made it right.

Only it doesn’t feel like he did. He’s hoping that’ll change once the cast comes off.

“Can it wait?” he asks. “I’d like to dump this car.”

They’re back to stealing after their honestly - semi-honestly - bought ride suffered some pretty identifiable damage back in Texas. That means dumping and running and hoping law enforcement doesn’t realize the trail they’re leaving.

Jemma agrees readily enough, but the closed-off look on her face leaves Grant feeling like shit. He knows first-hand how annoying it is to keep any kind of bandage on longer than necessary, and she’s been wearing that one for weeks. She was probably really excited to get rid of it.

They’ll stop in Kansas City for the night, he decides. After the last few days - spent driving, driving, and more driving - they could all do with a night in real beds, and he was already planning on stopping for a couple hours so he could raid the drop box he’s got there. The money inside isn’t much, but it should be enough to get them a clunker that’ll make it across Missouri.

By unspoken agreement, whoever sits on the sidelines watching the knife training gets next driving shift. Jemma takes the backseat, probably to sleep since she drove through the night, and Grant grabs under the passenger seat before Kara can climb in after her.

“Here.” He tosses a magazine into the back. He picked it up during a food run yesterday but forgot about it thanks to some cops eating at the same restaurant. “It’s the new edition,” he says while he starts up the car. There weren’t many science magazines available at a small town newsstand, but he recognized the title of that one from the pile he bought her back in Georgia.

“Thank you,” she says, but he barely hears it. This old clunker is in such bad shape the owner should be thanking them. Kara fiddles with the radio, trying to find something decent to cover up the sound.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The drive that should only take them a couple hours, ends up taking nearly the whole day. There’s some big accident with a semi that backs up traffic for miles while they wait for someone to get out there and move the damn thing off the road.

Grant and Kara trade Academy stories to pass the time. He tries to get Jemma to chime in, needling her to argue his and Kara’s assertion that Agent Chafin was the worst instructor in all of SHIELD, but she keeps her nose in that damn magazine.

By the time they start seeing Kansas City signs, it’s dark out, and Grant has Kara pull over at the first motel they see. His drop box has waited a few years, it can wait a few more hours while he gets some decent rest. The girls seem to feel the same. Neither says a word of protest when he tells them all they had was two twins and a cot, so they’ll all be sharing a room.

They disappear together into the bathroom while Grant waits for the night manager to show up with the cot. His eyes are drooping when it’s finally his turn to pee and he barely hears Kara say he can have her bed. He _does_ hear it though and carefully makes his way across the room in the dark once his teeth are brushed. He’s so damn tired he doesn’t even care that the bed he falls on already has someone in it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jemma’s staring at him when he opens his eyes. He must’ve been more tired than he thought if he slept next to her the whole night through and didn’t even feel her waking up.

“Sorry,” he mutters, stretching his legs and back without actually moving. There’s not a lot of light coming through the curtains and he can hear Kara in the bathroom. It’s early yet and the bed is sleep-warmed, way too comfortable to leave.

“It’s all righ-” She swallows down the end of the word. There’s something nervous in her eyes, something lost bunny frightened that reminds him of those first few missions on the Bus before she got her sea legs.

“Hey.” He brushes her mussed hair away from her cheek. “Bad dream?”

She drags in a shaking breath and he realizes suddenly just how close they are. The bed’s not just warm because of him, her body heat’s bleeding all along his front. Her eyes drop to his lips.

He flashes back to that little motel in Texas and he darts a quick glance down to her arm. Yep, the cast is right there.

His chest seizes and his fingers curl in her hair. He’s really thinking about this. But why shouldn’t he? She’s beautiful and smart and downright adorable. She’s got that wicked sense of humor he loves and she’s strong, stronger than he gave her credit for back on the Bus. She’s amazing. Really the only surprise is that it took him so long to realize, and after Kara went and told him he’s-

“I need you to let me go.”

The tension in his chest disappears, leaving him feeling hollow, like there’s no air at all in his lungs, no bones or muscle holding him up. He’s just skin and a curiously bleeding heart.

How does he always end up here?

Jemma shifts on the pillow. He snatches his hand away.

“I know you’re worried about the team finding you, but they won’t. I won’t tell them-” She rolls her eyes. “ _I_ don’t even know where we’re headed, so it’s not like I can tell them. And I’ll go somewhere else. I’ll take a bus to- to some other city and I’ll call the team once I’m there. That’ll give you a head start!”

“It’s not safe,” Grant says, grasping at the first protest that springs to mind. “Morse-”

“That’s why I have to go back,” she says. “If Bobbi is a traitor, they need to be warned.”

She lays her hand over his on his waist. The cast is awkward between them, a reminder of his failure.

He sits up, rolls off the bed. He’s still got his shoes on. Good.

Good.

That’ll make for a quicker exit. She wants him to let her go. Fine. He’ll go right now, let her find her way back to SHIELD from this cheap motel.

The water running in the shower catches his attention. Damn. He forgot about Kara.

But maybe that doesn’t matter, maybe she’ll want to go with Jemma instead. Grant nearly laughs. That’ll go well, Kara facing the woman who left her to be brainwashed.

“It’s been weeks since San Juan,” Jemma says. When he dares look her way, she’s curled up small at the head of the bed. He wants to hit the wall. Over this. Over her looking _scared_.

What the hell is _wrong_ with him?

“Don’t you think it’s time you let me go?”

Yeah. Yeah, he really does.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Turns out Jemma doesn’t _want_ Kara coming with her, just in case Bobbi’s betrayal was personal. Kara argues it. A _lot_. But when they climb into the car to head into the city, she bites her tongue and keeps quiet.

Grant drops Jemma down the block from the bus station to avoid any cameras watching the parking lot. The girls hug goodbye while he sits in the car, hands tight around the steering wheel.

“I’ll be fine,” Jemma laughs while Kara holds her. “You taught me well.”

No, she didn’t. She’s barely taught her anything at all. And Grant helped anyway.

He screws his eyes shut as they fall silent, waiting for the sound of Kara climbing back in.

“Ward.”

He starts. Jemma is leaning in the passenger window, a tight expression on her face. She hesitates long enough that some stupid, idiot part of him thinks maybe she’s about to take it all back, ask to come along.

She doesn’t.

“Thank you,” she says, “for coming back for me.” She smiles weakly. “Every time you did.”

The anger burning in his veins cools. He feels empty again. “I would’ve. Back in San Juan.”

“I know.” She nods - to him, to herself, he can’t be sure - and stands.

Fuck. “Wait!” he snaps before she can walk away. He pulls the gun from the waistband of his jeans as she ducks back in. “Take this. You use it first, fall back on the knife if you have to.”

Their fingers touch when he hands it to her. That idiot part of him is at it again and he wonders if there’s a way to isolate the bastard so he can put him out of his misery.

Simmons slips the gun discreetly into her bag.

And then she’s gone.

 


	12. [undisclosed location]

Grant spends the whole morning with one eye out for SHIELD. No way Simmons would wait. Once she made it inside the bus depot, she probably asked the first halfway nice looking stranger she saw for a phone to call in the Cavalry. Who’s probably itching for the chance to make Grant choke on his own larynx again.

But if the quinjets are tracking his every move, waiting for the perfect moment to turn him into a scar on the road, they stay cloaked.

“I’m sorry.” They’re halfway through Illinois and those are the first words Kara’s spoken since they left Simmons back in Missouri.

Grant does a quick self-check. He loosens his grip on the wheel, forces his shoulders to relax. It hurts. Not because he’s spent the better part of the day strangling the wheel, but because relaxing only reminds him of the hollow still sitting in the center of his chest. He needs to _chill_. When SHIELD comes for them, he won’t be any good to himself _or_ Kara if he’s bent himself out of shape.

“What for?” he asks, dropping his hands to his lap and holding the wheel loosely. It doesn’t do anything for his chest, but it does help his nerves.

Kara breathes deep, giving him time to brace himself for whatever it is she’s about to say. “I’m the reason Jemma left.”

All of Grant’s hard work relaxing goes out the window. It is _really_  tough not to let what he’s thinking show on his face. “And what makes you think that?” he asks once he’s sure he can talk without laughing.

She fiddles with her hands. “The night that I- that I kissed you, I … didn’t just kiss you.”

Yep, his nerves are definitely shot. He counts to ten before asking, “Whose face were you wearing?”

“Skye’s.”

Okay. That is … gonna be a problem.

He tries. He really does. But he spent a year living in close quarters with Simmons and Skye. It is way too easy to imagine them like that. Those thoughts are gonna haunt him for a _long_ time to come.

He breathes out a chuckle. He really can’t win, can he?

“That’s not why she left,” he says. Half because it’s what Kara needs to hear, half because it’s true.

“She’s been acting strange ever since-”

“It wasn’t you.” Grant takes his eyes off the road - not much danger there, it’s flat and straight and so boring he would’ve fallen asleep hours ago if he wasn’t watching for trouble. “Simmons is loyal to SHIELD. Too loyal.”

Anyone with any sense would’ve started second-guessing the organization that ordered them _thrown from a plane_ , but Simmons is a damn fool when it comes to her own welfare. She even let Coulson convince her to go undercover in HYDRA and look how that turned out. One agent brainwashed and Simmons only saved from the same because Whitehall went and died.

“We should’ve stopped her.”

Grant’s grip tightens again. Even though it’s exactly what his thoughts were dancing around, hearing her say it pisses him off.

He spent weeks stopping Simmons and what does she do? Runs back the second she finds out SHIELD’s the least safe place for her. Well he’s done. She doesn’t want his help? Fine. He knows someone who does.

He smiles across the front seat. “I think, now that she’s gone, it’s time we take a more proactive approach to fixing you up.”

Kara’s surprise is obvious, as is her curiosity. Grant lets her wait, her eager anticipation makes for great entertainment for the long hours ahead.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It takes him a day to get it ready once they’re in place. There are old contacts to get in touch with, guys to pay off, supplies to procure - oh, and a plan to perfect. That part’s kinda important.

“You did all of this in a _day_?” Kara asks, holding up the expensive coat he’s given her to wear for her first part of the op. 

“Yeah,” he says, and busies himself finding the photo she’s gonna need to complete her disguise. He should be proud - back in the days of SHIELD, accomplishing this sort of thing in a few hours was normal, but that was with a vast, international infrastructure backing them up - but the truth is this came together so fast because he’s been playing with the idea of making this move for a while. Part of it’s for his own hatred of loose ends, part’s for Kara, and part is for … justice or some crap.

She takes the photo and shrugs into the jacket. Once it’s settled around her shoulders, she’s a totally different person. “I don’t have her voice,” she says.

Grant shrugs. “We’ll have to make do. I tried getting an audio file, but for the wife of a public figure, she’s scary good at keeping private. We’re lucky I got that photo.” He tosses her the keys to the luxury sedan he borrowed from a rental agency this morning. Technically he _did_ pay for it - twice the normal rental price to avoid all the hassle of paperwork. “You ready?”

She worries her lip, eyes darting to the corner of the room like she’s looking for something. “Are you sure we should do this?”

“We don’t have to,” he says readily. Nothing’s been done yet that can’t be undone. He sets his hands on her shoulders and is extra glad phase two of the plan requires that she be wearing a uniform under the coat. It fills her out a little. Not that the woman she’s impersonating is fat by any means, but Kara’s _tiny_. Even if she wasn’t in fantastic shape, she’d still have those narrow shoulders. “This is for you, it’s your call.”

She looks over Grant’s shoulder, still looking for that something to back her up. “I just wonder if it’s the right thing to do.”

“No, it’s not.”

That surprises her enough to get her eyes back on him. Good.

“You know as well as I do that in this line of work, the ‘right thing’ isn’t always an option. Sometimes that means we kill people who maybe didn’t deserve it. And sometimes, like today, that means we give this asshole a taste of his own medicine. Now, you’re not the only one he hurt, but you’re the only one who’s here, so you get to decide. Either we leave his fate up to the authorities or we take care of it ourselves.”

She looks down at their feet. “He enjoyed it,” she says softly.

He squeezes her shoulders. “I know.” He didn’t, but it’s not that big of a leap.

She pulls in a ragged breath. “He told me he was going to-” She looks up, eyes glistening as they land on that corner again. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Grant smiles and leads the way down to the car.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Despite the scars, Grant’s never been suicidal. Back in that hole of Coulson’s, he was making a play. A reckless, desperate one, but a play nonetheless. But right here, right now, he’s thinking he might’ve crossed the line.

He’s a well-known former agent of HYDRA and he has _willing walked into_ a maximum security- well, it’s not a prison, it’s technically an Air Force base, but it’s an Air Force base with maximum security holding cells for some of HYDRA’s top ranking officials who’ve been caught since the uprising.

And Grant just waltzed right on in.

Yep, he might be a little suicidal.

He’s also in very real danger of being caught. When the door to the closet he’s hiding in swings open, he’s sure it’s all over, but before he can attack the airman smiles. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he says in Kara’s voice. “Talbot knows about me, he’s rounding everyone up for tests.”

“Then we’d better hurry.” They jog down the hallway, looking like they’re two airmen in a hurry to get something done. This was all part of the plan. Grant knew sending Kara in as Talbot’s wife was a gamble. It gave them the access they needed, but it also drew Talbot’s notice that much sooner. At this point, he’s just counting on Talbot’s blustering buying them the time they need to get this done.

There are a lot of things that have him smiling when he opens the door to Bakshi’s cell. The look on the bastard’s face for one, but also how small the place is. It makes that hole Coulson threw him in look like a palace.

He’s feeling a little less bitter about Coulson regifting his prisoner to the feds.

“Ward?” Bakshi asks. There’s a tremor in his voice and his hands when he stands. Grant’s smile grows. “Come to finish what you- Agent 33?” Now Bakshi smiles. His eyes dart back to Grant, smug satisfaction in them, before returning to Kara as she steps closer. “The loyal servant returns - and with a new recruit.”

Grant’s stomach turns. He’s really not sure if it’s at the implication he’s been brainwashed or the way Kara’s gotta be feeling at the implication she still is.

“Who do you serve now?”

“Myself,” Kara says, not missing a beat. Bakshi gets maybe a second to drink that in before she lays him out flat with a right cross.

She huffs out a breath and turns to Grant. It’s on the tip of his tongue to say something snarky about his doctor still being on him about his gunshot wounds, but as those are all healed up and his doctor is probably on the other side of the country right now, he bites it down. “Nice,” he says instead and lifts Bakshi over his shoulder without protest.

Kara beams.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Grant’s gotta get out of that room. The torture he’s good with, but as this is the audio-visual variety, it tends to affect everyone in the vicinity, and Grant’d really rather not get brainwashed by accident.

Kara’s okay being in there with it - which is slightly disturbing for a whole laundry list of reasons Grant has decided not to think about - so he leaves her to it. This is her catharsis anyway.

He pushes a towel under the door to block out the sound and throws himself on the bed. He’s not even tired - still too keyed up from their narrow escape from the base - but after all the nights he’s spent lately curled up in the backs of stolen cars, it’s heaven.

He’s barely settled in when his phone - his burner phone that is used strictly for outgoing calls to his contacts - rings.

If this is someone calling to yell at him over today, he really needs to remind them - with a bullet to the head - of just the kind of work they’re in and what else he could possibly have done with that intel he bullied out of them.

“Who is this?” he demands. His eyes slip shut, ready to hang up on whoever this is and start his power nap. He thinks about the other day, his conversation with Kara in the car. Maybe he’ll indulge in some dirty dreams about his former teammates.

“Ward?”

He sits up, all thoughts of murder and sex going right out of his head. “Jemma?”

 


	13. South Carolina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might notice that this is now part of a series. No, I do not have plans for a sequel but I did post two drabbles from Jemma's POV. The first takes place way back in chapter 2 and if you follow me on tumblr you might've seen it before, but the second drabble details what Jemma was up to during the previous chapter. **You do not have to read that first** to understand the following; both kind of spoil each other, so whichever order you go with is fine.

Grant leaves Kara with Bakshi, tells her to hold down the fort and he’ll be back in a couple days. He doesn’t tell her Jemma’s in trouble.

Someone needs to stay behind, there’s really no way to stop the conditioning without either undoing it all or melting Bakshi’s brain (not a bad alternative though), and if Kara knows it’s Jemma, she’ll be off her game. Not that Grant’s all that worried - Bakshi’s half-brainwashed already - but any weakness can be exploited. He’s not leaving Kara alone and distracted with a potentially violent captive.

He drives all night and sometime around dawn turns into a church parking lot off Route 601. Lazy cars rumble past in the early morning light but there doesn’t seem to be anyone else around.

He whistles twice, sharply, and waits, wondering if he beat her here, wondering if she was scooped up along the way, wondering if this is all a trap. His hand moves to the gun in his waistband, just in case.

The breath rushes out of him when she steps around the side of the little white church. “Ward?” she calls cautiously.

A semi rumbles past behind him. He looks, just for a second to make sure no one was using that noise to cover up something else, and when he turns back it’s just in time to see Jemma before her arms are around him.

“Thank goodness,” she says, same way she said it on the phone last night. Like she was afraid he wouldn’t answer, wouldn’t come.

“It’s okay,” he says, holding her right back - not as tight as she’s holding him though. “I got you.”

She pushes away, just far enough she can see his face. “The others. Something’s happened to them.”

He nods. He kinda figured from what little he got out of her last night. But that can wait until they’re on the move. They’ve got more immediate concerns.

“How’d you get here?” When they talked about reconnecting, she said she could meet him half way and he was too relieved to ask how. If she hitchhiked or took a bus, there’ll be witnesses.

Her cheeks, already pink from the early morning chill, darken. “I stole a car.” She pulls him to one side so he can better see around the church. There’s a sensible little sports car with Georgia plates parked around back by the dumpsters. He maybe gapes a little because she snaps, “Well I’ve seen you do it often enough!”

He lets his shock melt into a smile. “Good job.” He loops an arm around her shoulders and tugs her back towards his car. “Now tell me what happened.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

What happened is he was fucking right about Bobbi Morse. Jemma called the team - called _everyone_ \- and no one answered. Not until she got to Bobbi.

“‘We,’ she said.” Jemma’s hands are fisted on her knees to keep them from bouncing. “‘We’re on your side.’” Grant knows. He listened in when Jemma made her second call to Morse just a couple hours ago. “Do you think she means HYDRA?”

“Don’t know,” he says honestly, taking another look out the window. The cheap hotel room they got for the day in downtown Columbia mostly looks out on ugly rooftops, but there’s an alley between two of the neighboring buildings, through which he can see the outdoor dining area of the café two blocks away.

He lines up his sight on a woman sitting all alone. Hair’s up in a baseball cap. Fingers keep tapping next to the cheap phone on the tabletop. She’s been there for nearly an hour and is probably thinking about bailing.

Suddenly her head comes up. Grant adjusts his sight and sees a blonde standing over her. He recognizes her.

“She’s here.”

Jemma practically jumps from the bed to the chair beside his and takes his phone from him once he’s dialed and switched on the speaker. The phone on the café table lights up just as Morse tries to move away.

“Hello?” the girl asks. Her job done, she’s already letting her hair down again. It’s longer than Jemma’s but it was nearly the right shade and she was short enough to pass so long as she stayed sitting.

“Thanks, Bonnie. There’s another hundred bucks waiting in the alley behind you. Green dumpster, front left corner, under the McDonald’s cup. Be sure to give the phone to the blonde before you go.”

“No problem,” Bonnie says flippantly. Grant tracks her until she catches up with Morse. Beside him, Jemma does the same with a pair of binoculars. “The phone’s for you,” they hear Bonnie say. “Bitch.”

Grant’s gotta bite back a laugh. Bonnie is under the impression Morse is Jemma’s abusive ex who stole her dog in order to arrange this meeting. She was more than happy to help Jemma avoid seeing her face to face again - for a price, of course.

It was worth it though. The look on Morse’s face as Bonnie flips her hair dismissively and walks away is priceless.

“Hello?” Morse asks after a moment’s hesitation.

Grant gives Jemma a nod.

“This is Simmons,” she says. If there was any warmth at all in her voice when she called Bobbi after their arrival in Columbia, it’s gone now.

“Simmons, _where are you_? This isn’t funny.” Bobbi turns a circle, scanning the area and motioning to agents Grant can’t see. The hunt’s on.

“No, it’s really not,” Jemma agrees. “Where are the others? What have you done to them? Who are you working for?”

Morse’s shoulders slump. “I work for SHIELD. I never lied about that. Now show yourself so we can talk about this.”

“We’re talking right now and I’m quite comfortable where I am. Where are the others?”

“Fine,” Morse says tightly. She gestures someone closer to her: May. And a couple of painfully obvious agents.

Jemma gasps. Grant rests a hand on her knee

Morse doesn’t hand the phone over, but she does put it on speaker. The better everyone can hear what May and Jemma say to each other. Grant wonders if Morse is so dumb she thinks Jemma arranged this meet without setting up a viewing spot beforehand.

“Simmons?” May asks. “Is that you?”

“May?” Jemma sounds like she might cry. “Are you all right? What’s happened?”

May hesitates, looking to Morse. Something passes between the two women, but Grant can’t make it out from this distance.

“They’re SHIELD,” May says finally, “like she said. Are you all right?” Morse leaves the phone and moves off, apparently satisfied May’s gonna play nice. Grant bites down a curse when she leaves his field of vision.

There was an order in the question and Jemma doesn’t hesitate to answer. “I’m fine.” Her left arm twists in her lap. “Alive. Safe. What about you? And the others? Fitz and Skye and Trip? Coulson?”

“Coulson’s on the run. I’m guessing the others are with him but no one’s made contact since leaving the Playground.”

“On the run?” Jemma echoes. “From SHIELD?”

“These guys don’t trust Coulson. They think he’s building an army of Gifteds, that the GH-325 affected him more than we know. There’s talk of a potential alien invasion.” From May’s tone, it’s not hard to guess what she thinks of that theory.

Jemma and Grant exchange a look. This supposed SHIELD Morse is working for is making HYDRA’s crazy look kind of mundane.

“Jemma,” May says sternly.

“Yes?”

“You said you’re safe? Healthy?”

“Yes.”

“Then the safest thing for you is to find Coulson. Don’t you dare come back. Don’t let them take you!” She drops the phone as she begins fighting off the men trying to subdue her.

“May!” Jemma yells.

“Simmons!” Morse’s voice crackles on the line as sounds of the fight drop out.

Grant swings to the right. There, on the roof of a Laundromat down the block from the café, is Morse. She’s got the pair of phones he used to keep them from tracing the call to the hotel.

“Simmons, you have to listen to me,” Morse says. “I know you’re confused, but we are the good guys here. Just come with us and you’ll see-”

“Did you hand Agent 33 over to HYDRA?”

Morse freezes.

“Did you?” Jemma demands. She’s on her feet, looking over Grant’s head to see.

“It wasn’t as simple as that. I gave them the location of a safe house, I didn’t know anyone was inside-”

“God,” Jemma breathes. She falls back into her chair.

“I did it to protect you,” Morse says. Grant would laugh if it wasn’t so not-funny. This woman’s been spying on the team for months and she actually thinks that’ll work with Jemma? He would’ve known that just from reading her file. “It was a necessary evil.”

“Yes, I’m becoming more acquainted with those lately.” Jemma’s voice is tight, pained. Grant’s finger itches. “I am sorry, Agent Morse.”

“Jemma-”

Jemma ends the call and tosses the phone out the window, into the alley below. “Don’t kill her.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Grant says. Yet. He settles himself over the rifle, takes aim, and it’s almost too easy.

They’re out the back of the hotel and in the car while Morse is still writhing in pain on that rooftop, trying to hold her shoulder together.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The sun’s still shining when they reach the house Grant’s got out by Lake Marion. It’s not quite on the water, in an area most tourists don’t typically visit because it’s got kind of a creepy, serial killer, redneck vibe to it. Grant likes it.

Jemma didn’t question him while he drove except to ask if they were going to pick up Kara - he felt guilty for his no, since she was probably missing her after that confirmation from Morse - and she doesn’t question him when they arrive. She just climbs out and follows him up the leaf-strewn steps inside.

The place is dusty and the penny he keeps on the door falls into his hand. No one’s been inside since he was last here. Good. He doesn’t much feel like kicking out any squatters.

It’s a single room cabin with a bathroom addition on the back wall, so it only takes a quick look to be sure no animals have found their way in either. He thinks about asking her to help him remake the bed - it’s just easier to change the sheets entirely instead of hunting for bugs between the blankets - but instead he smiles.

“Still haven’t taken that thing off?” he asks, nodding to her cast.

She looks down like she’d forgotten she even had an arm, let along a big tube of plaster over it. “I forgot,” she says hollowly. “In all the running…”

The noise he makes, _he’s_ not even sure what it means, but it seems like the right one. He drags the afghan off the top of the bed. It lands in a cloud of dust on the floor.

“Sit.”

The kitchen’s stocked with supplies even if there’s no food except MREs and Grant knows his way around the place like he was last here yesterday instead of three years ago. He comes back to the bed with a small hand towel.

Jemma watches him with steadily growing amusement as he stuffs the towel inside the cast and then pulls out one of his knives to start cutting carefully into it. “You’ve done this before.”

He grins. “Sometimes you can’t wait for SHIELD medical to clear you.”

He expects the mention of SHIELD to remind her that he was never loyal to them or of Morse, but she only chuckles. “No, I suppose you can’t.”

It’s long, tedious work with their heads bent together, breathing the same air, and their knees and thighs touching. By the time he’s done he’s had to go outside to turn on the generator so they can get some light in here.

Jemma hisses when she sees her skin beneath the cast. He knows it doesn’t hurt, but it looks terrible. He wets the towel and brings it back to wipe away the worst of the dead skin. She hisses again at the cold water, but the towel warms quickly from their body heat as he draws it carefully down her arm.

“Okay?” he asks, worried it might still be hurting. It’s not like she really checked it out to be sure it was healed.

“Yes.”

This is wrong. Simmons isn’t like this. She’s friendly - okay, maybe not always to him, but she’s always been talkative. Back on the Bus, there were days he could swear, even knowing she was off on a food run or something, he could hear her jabbering away somewhere. That’s how bad it was, how deep the sound of her voice burrowed into his head. But now? She’s said maybe a dozen words since leaving Morse on that rooftop.

“Hey,” he says, curling his fingers around hers. “Morse is gonna be fine. I knew what I was doing.”

“That’s not what I-”

“And we’re gonna find Coulson,” he continues quickly. “We’re gonna find him and the others and we’re gonna take these guys down and everything’s gonna be all right. Understand?”

Jemma stares, mouth slightly agape. Is she really that surprised? She called him for help, what’d she think he was gonna do?

She looks down at their hands and all at once he remembers the other night, realizes how close they are. He tries to pull away but she doesn’t let him. She stands, but only to step in front of him so that she can rest her knees on either side of his thighs.

“Jemma,” he says. He’s not sure whether it’s a question.

She kisses him. She’s tentative, afraid he’ll shut her down, but she’s oh so desperate for him not to.

And he won’t. Not in a million years. If he had any control before, any will to push her away the way his agent of SHIELD cover would’ve done, it evaporated the second her lips touched his.

He digs a hand into her hair, holding her at just the right angle, and his hand splays across her back to keep her steady as he rolls them. She pants, breathless, beneath him. Her eyes are wide, but it’s not with the disgust and fear he’s grown way too familiar with the last few months, it’s desire.

Before, back before HYDRA fucked everything up, he used to catch her with that look in her eye - not as brazen, but it was there. And now, after all the shit they’ve been through, she still wants him. He kisses her again.

This isn’t like last time he let his stupid heart walk out into the line of fire. This isn’t the days after the uprising, trying to pick up the pieces of what almost was. Jemma’s not gonna turn on him just because of some stupid war he didn’t even start. She knows what he is. She’s seen the worst of him and he’s seen the worst of her and they’re both still here. This is how it’s supposed to be.

This is right. This is good.

 


	14. the American Southeast

Delicate fingers brush Grant’s cheek and that’s the moment he can’t help it; he’s gotta smile.

There’s sunlight streaming in when he opens his eyes, enough that he can see Jemma smiling back at him. It’s a really, really good smile.

“How long have you been awake?” she asks. They’re both still dressed and on top of the blankets, but they slept close enough to keep each other warm.

“Since you woke up.”

That smile grows into almost a laugh. Her hand lands against his chest and her whole body rolls towards his. He readily slides a hand over her hip, glad for the excuse to hold her closer.

“Liar,” she says to his collarbone. There’s no anger or accusation to it. She’s teasing him. He thinks he’d feel weightless if it weren’t for her against him.

“No, I really have been.”

She lifts her head. “Specialist training?”

“Survivalist. Spend a couple years in the woods, you learn real quick to wake up when anything else nearby does.” Buddy was his security system at night, but the dog was too smart to go barking at every broken twig, which meant Grant had to train himself to wake up when he did. Saved his life a couple times even before he started field work - not to mention the embarrassment it saved him from when hazing began freshman year.

Jemma turns her face away, her eyes distant. Now Grant does weigh something. He’s afraid, suddenly, that he’s made a misstep. What if he was wrong? What if knowing him for what he is isn’t enough? What if Jemma only let herself forget because she was so damn scared? What if-

She pushes herself up to kiss his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

He slides a hand up and down her back to dispel the shakes he can feel in his gut. “Not your fault - and it came in handy anyway.” Not just back in those woods or in the field either. It’s been nice just lying here, knowing she was awake next to him.

“I’m still sorry. It must’ve been awful out there on your own. I can’t believe- Well, actually I _can_ believe that Garrett would do that to a child.”

He tamps down on the swell of anger that threatens to overpower him. It’s not directed at Jemma - not really - but there’s part of him that’s never gonna be okay with any unkind word aimed at John, no matter if he deserved it. “I was up for arson and attempted murder charges as an adult.”

“You were _seventeen_. When I was seventeen-”

“You had two PhDs and were training to be a spy. Your age didn’t stop SHIELD from bringing you into this.”

She goes quiet and even more still. Based on the angle of the sun, he’s thinking it’s about six in the morning. He probably got the cast off about five in the afternoon, which means it’s been thirteen hours since she climbed into his lap. Thirteen hours and they’re already having their first fight.

There’s part of him wants to think back to how long it was between Providence and everything going to shit in LA, but Jemma interrupts that self-flagellating line of thought before it can get started.

“Do you think they’ve hurt May?”

“Maybe,” he says, because apparently he’s doing this thing where he doesn’t lie to her. Where did _that_ come from? “But May’s strong. She can take whatever they throw at her.”

“You don’t think they’ll …” She doesn’t say it. Probably can’t say it. He holds her a little closer.

“They want you guys alive. If they’re really SHIELD, probably they think they’re gonna win all of you over, turn you against Coulson. That’s how they prove to themselves they’re right about this. That or they want something and you’re how they get it. Either way, May’s alive.”

She nods slowly against his chest. Her hands have been curled into the front of his shirt for most of this conversation, but now one slowly moves around to his back.

“Did you mean what you said? About finding Coulson and helping him?”

He shifts them, gets a little room between them so he can tip her chin up. He wants her to see him when he says this. “Every word.” It’s not gonna be easy or fun. Well, parts of it’ll be fun for sure, but there’s still a lot of bad blood between him and the team. That’s not gonna evaporate just because Jemma’s forgiven him.

In fact, he expects this development will only see it increasing.

But the promise has her so happy that he really can’t regret any of that future pain. She beams at him, same way she did last night after he found that spot on her neck that made her writhe and laugh all at the same time. He fingers the mark he left there.

“Oh no,” she says. She kicks her legs up and rolls right off the bed. “No more of that.”

He props himself up on his elbow to watch while she hunts for her shoes. She tossed them away when she got sick of them pulling at the blankets, but he doesn’t bother to tell her they’re in the kitchen area, it’s way too entertaining watching her butt bounce around while she digs under the bed and in the corners.

“Why not?” he asks. “It was so much fun.”

“I’m not disputing that,” she says - and he does his best not to preen - “but I’m sure wherever you’ve left her, Kara’s worried sick. And if we’re going to find-” she makes an annoyed noise and stands to head for the kitchen- “Coulson and the others, we should start looking right away. Bobbi’s friends will have a substantial lead on us.”

“Not to mention they’ll be hunting us,” Grant points out, finally sitting up. “We’ll have to be extra careful not to be seen.”

“Well it’s a good thing they don’t know I’m with you.” She bites her lip as she forces her left shoe on. “And I doubt anyone would assume you’d be looking to help Coulson.”

“True.” He hadn’t thought of that. He could probably walk right by a dozen of this other SHIELD’s agents and they’d let him go just in hopes of catching the others.

“And they certainly won’t think they might find me running around with you.” Jemma’s got this teasing look in her eye, one he became very familiar with last night.

“Oh?”

Her hips sway as she returns to the bedside, and it takes every ounce of his self-control not to grab her by them and pull her back into the circle of his arms. “So I think, to throw them off the trail of course, we’ll need to do quite a lot of this-” she plants a quick peck on his lips- “and this-”

That’s it, he’s only human. “And this?” he asks, tugging her to him. She _eep_ s in the most adorable way right before he takes a real kiss.

When he finally lets them both breathe again, she’s looking a little dazed but manages a weak, “For the cover, of course.”

“For the cover,” he agrees with a solemn nod.

Despite their best - all right, fine, mediocre - efforts, they don’t make it back to the road until nearly lunch time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Turns out, Grant was wrong. Their first fight comes twenty hours in at a little diner just across the North Carolina border.

The Playground - that’s what Jemma says the base is called - is in California and if Coulson escaped, that’s the best place to start their search. So after driving far enough to get away from SHIELD’s dogs, they stop for lunch and to call Kara for a meet-up.

“You sure you’re okay to travel?” he asks after agreeing it’ll be best if they get started heading west and converge along the way. “Bakshi’s not gonna be a problem?”

“No,” she says, sounding so pleased he can hear her smiling. “He’s happy to do whatever I ask.”

Grant chuckles. “Yeah, well, he pulls anything, you feel free to shoot him.”

“Will do. Stay safe.”

“You too.” He hasn’t told her everything - or anything really, just that SHIELD’s in the mix again and it’s best if they get on the move sooner rather than later. She doesn’t even know he’s with Jemma or she’d probably be begging to talk to her. He smiles while he hangs up, imagining how excited she’ll be, but there’s part of him that’s not eager to see it. The last day and a half have been good. Even with the trap for SHIELD and all that. It’s been nice, just him and Jemma. He’s not eager to see that end, even to get back to Kara.

His already fading smile drops completely when he sees Jemma’s hands, the knuckles white on the tabletop and her chicken fried steak forgotten. “See something?” he asks, sitting up straighter.

“Bakshi?” she asks.

 _Shit_. It doesn’t occur to him until right that second that he should’ve played this better. He should’ve eased her into it, talked her around to wanting him punished before he even let her know he had been. Shit.

“Yeah,” he says. “He’s with Kara.”

“He was in the Playground.” She’s sitting very straight. Every muscle is taut and ready to spring.

He shoots a look towards the kitchen. They’ve come in at kind of an off-hour, so they’ve got the diner mostly to themselves. Which only means the waitress is more likely to notice if they start yelling at each other.

“Coulson kept him in your old cell.”

“Glad to see it wasn’t going to waste,” Grant mutters. A muscle in Jemma’s jaw ticks and he regrets it. “I don’t know what happened, okay? But Kara and I pulled him out of a military prison.”

She doesn’t say anything to that, just makes him wait in heavy silence while big-rigs roll by outside until…

“Why?”

He resists the urge to shift in his seat and instead stabs his salad, breaking a crouton in half so suddenly the two pieces go flying. “He helped Whitehall brainwash Kara, pulled her strings when he wasn’t around. Figured an eye for an eye might help her get some closure.”

Jemma’s answer to that doesn’t wait more than a heartbeat. “You _brainwashed_ him?”

“Technically she did the brainwashing. I’ve been kinda busy.”

She’s mad. _Really_ mad. And while Grant’s earlier fears are welling back up, he’s not about to let this go. “I know it sounds bad-”

“‘ _Sounds_ bad’?”

“-but you should’ve heard her. She hasn’t sounded that happy since she got her name back.”

The waitress appears then, asking how they are, if they need anything. Jemma seethes at him while Grant says they’re fine, thanks. He’s got the better view of the room, so he knows before she does when the waitress is far enough gone they can get back to it.

“He deserved it,” he says before she can do more than open her mouth. “He was a sick fuck who liked licking Whitehall’s boots and torturing anyone he could get his hands on. He deserved a hell of a lot worse than a couple days of torture and a lifetime of happy compliance. Coulson wasn’t gonna give him that and neither was the government, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t right.”

It’s a damn good thing the waitress has gone into the back again because if she could see the look of horror Jemma’s wearing right now, she might get worried.

“Was that what-” she gets out before stopping herself.

“What?” he presses. “Was that what?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. Never mind.”

He reaches across the table for her hand. She slides it into her lap, out of his reach, eyes on her meal.

Grant sits back, looking her over. 

Damn.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Jemma!” Kara squeals - yeah, it’s definitely a squeal - when she sees her coming in the door behind Grant. She’s up and rushing past him almost faster than he can track and then the two of them are hugging.

Grant turns away to focus on Bakshi. He’s looking wan and tense, sitting upright on the edge of the bed. There’s anticipation in his eyes, almost an eagerness.

“Bakshi,” Grant says.

It shouldn’t be possible, sitting the way he is, but Bakshi perks up. “How may I be of assistance?” he asks, practically pleads.

Grant studies his face carefully, searching for signs of deception. Not that he doesn’t trust Kara to get the job done, but he had every intention of being with her along the way. He wants to know it’s been done right.

“You want to assist me?” he asks.

Bakshi’s head bobs, stopping just short of impersonating a bobble head. “I’m happy to comply with the wishes of all Miss Kara’s friends. You and Miss Simmons and anyone else she-”

It’s no wonder why Bakshi’s gone quiet all of a sudden. Grant doesn’t often let his emotions show - not emotions like these anyway - but it’s just him and Bakshi, two old enemies. If the guy isn’t flashing back to that bar right about now, Grant’ll eat his shoe.

“ _Miss Simmons_ ,” he says, biting out the words, “is off-limits. You don’t speak to her unless spoken to and, if you value your life, hers comes first. Always. She’s worth ten of you.” It’s an understatement, but it gets the point across. Bakshi nods even more emphatically than before.

“H-h-happy to comply, sir. Always.” They’ll see about that, but now’s not the time to test the limits of Bakshi’s loyalty.

Grant leans back, aware he’s been looming for a while now. Behind him, he just hears the tail end of Jemma and Kara’s muted conversation.

“-my idea,” Kara says softly but earnestly. “I wanted this. I _needed_ this. I know you don’t understand but … I needed him to pay.”

Grant can’t see Kara’s face from this angle, but he can see Jemma’s. The devastation there is less than satisfying.

Their eyes meet for a brief moment and something Grant can’t identify crosses her face before her expression hardens into one of determination. She wraps Kara in another hug and whispers things too soft for Grant to hear.

“Come on,” Grant orders. This room connects to the one next to it and they’ve got both. He figures he’ll let the girls have their privacy. They can slumber party it up or whatever they usually do when the three of them split up for the night. And he’ll … room with Bakshi. Fun.

Bakshi follows without protest, eager to please. It’s almost comical watching his expression fall when they get to the next room and all Grant orders him to do is sit same as he was before.

Just for something to do, Grant heads into the bathroom to wash up. He doesn’t think about Jemma while he does it or about how fast he’s managed to fuck everything up. That’d be useless, a waste of mental energy, the kind of rookie move that was drilled out of him back at the Academy.

When he comes out, Kara’s laying on the bed, flipping through one of Jemma’s science magazines. Bakshi’s sitting, same as before, only now he’s in the middle of the floor, legs criss-crossed and eyes on the wall.

“This is my room,” Kara says with so much certainty that Grant can only stop and stare. Brainwashing Bakshi really has done wonders for her. “You and Jemma can share.”

“That’s not a good idea,” he says quickly. “I’ll share with Bakshi.”

Kara gives him a disbelieving look around the edge of the magazine. “I was a spy, remember?”

Grant’s not really sure what she’s getting at, so he only stares until her hand moves to her neck. To the exact spot Jemma’s got a hickie from yesterday.

Kara rolls her eyes and goes back to her magazine. Grant’s not sure, but he thinks she might mutter “idiots” as he heads back into the other room.

Jemma’s lying on the bed, but sits up when he comes in. He hesitates before taking a seat beside her. She lets him. Even lets him take her hand when he reaches for it. These are good signs.

The wet breath she drags in is less good. “What about Skye?”

He feels like - and he’s got the experience to back this up - he just got knocked upside the head with a plumber’s wrench. “What?” he croaks.

Her fingers lace with his and her other hand traces over his knuckles. “You’re in love with Skye. What happens when we find the team and you see her again? Will this be just a diversion? Something to distract you while-”

“Hey.” He cuts in because it sounds like she’s talking just so he can’t. He lifts her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles. She watches with wide, sad eyes. “I’m not in love with Skye.”

She gives him that _you’re an idiot_ look he got real familiar with back on the Bus. “You spent months in Vault D saying otherwise.”

“Yeah,” he agrees because denying it won’t do either of them any good. “And then she shot me. Three times.” He shrugs one shoulder. “And a very pretty doctor nursed me back to health.”

She tries not to be charmed, she really does, but the corner of her mouth is tipping up despite her best efforts at a frown. “At gunpoint,” she reminds him. “And I did try to kill you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Her fingers twitch and she blinks at him. “I did.”

“Nope.”

“I was _there_. And you were unconscious, you’re not exactly a reliable source of information on the subject.”

He sighs. Not because he needs to, but because it emphasizes his point. “We’ve been over this. You couldn’t kill me, I couldn’t kill you.” She doesn’t look convinced, so he decides to try a different tactic. “You remember the night Kara got her name back?”

She nods, confused by the sudden question.

“She came to see me after we’d all gone to bed.”

She nods again, slower this time. “I know.”

“Do you know what she came into my room to do?”

Jemma shifts uncomfortably, but he holds tight to her hand, refusing to let her go. “I can imagine.”

He grins. “Because she did the same to you.” Her head snaps around to face him and he’s gotta laugh at that. “Yeah, she told me.”

“That’s not why I’m asking,” she protests.

“I know. Because Kara didn’t pretend to be Skye when she came to see me and I only sent her away when I realized she wasn’t wearing a cast.”

Jemma’s so still he’s pretty sure she’s not even breathing. Another good sign.

“I think she might even be smarter than me, because she saw it.” He cups her cheek in his free hand.

She leans into it and her eyes shut gently as she sighs, “Saw what?” 

“That I’m not in love with Skye. Not anymore.”

He doesn’t know what that look on her face means. It looks pained, but for some reason he thinks it might be good too.

“What about Fitz?” he asks.

Her eyes snap open. “Fitz?”

He tips his mouth up on one side. “Should I be worried about what’ll happen when we meet up with the team again?”

Now she’s looking annoyed. “Fitz is my _friend_. A friend I’ve known throughout my most sexually active years. I rather think the fact that nothing’s ever happened should speak for itself.”

Well that’s good to know. There was nothing official in their file in the old days but when he started asking around, everyone he talked to was sure something was going on there.

“So you’re not mad about Bakshi?” he asks, because he’s gotta know.

She drops back to the mattress. “I’m not _happy_ but I’m also not going to set Kara back by vilifying her. We’ll just have to ensure she treats Bakshi humanely until he can be helped.” She sighs heavily while dragging her hands down her face. “I’m becoming increasingly aware that there’s even less black and white in the world than I thought. I’m … adjusting.”

Grant eases down beside her, on his side so he can see her. “I’m guessing this right here falls in the shades of grey category.”

She smiles. “Oh, most definitely. But it’s a very good grey.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” she says, like it’s just that simple.

He doesn’t realize until just that moment how tense he’s been since that diner. He feels like there’s been a belt wrapped around his ribs, so tight and so ever-present that he forgot about it until it finally snapped.

“Good,” he says, suddenly eager to put some distance between them. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I’m stealing one of your pillows for the floor.”

Reaching up to grab one slows down his roll away from her, giving her time to shift upward. Her hands land on his chest and her weight holds him down. “Or,” she says, “you could sleep here.”

He relaxes into the mattress. “Not like we haven’t slept together before.”

She blushes but doesn’t turn away. “Not like this.”

His eyebrows rise and before he can come up with a good comeback for that, she’s kissing him, and having the last word doesn’t seem so important.

 


	15. Cross-Country

Grant’s phone rings while he’s pumping gas somewhere in Oklahoma. He lost the girls back by the state line - it’s safer that way, a little distance between them reduces their risk of being noticed - so he answers, figuring it’s Jemma calling from the passenger seat.

“Hey, baby,” he says and is about to ask if they’re close enough to meet him for lunch at the diner across the two-lane road (“best pancakes in three hundred miles” sounds pretty promising) when a low, male voice responds, “Hey, sweetie.”

Grant’s blood goes cold and he’s got a sudden flash of the girls in trouble, somewhere out there on the road. How far back could they be? How long would it take to double-back? To find them?

“Who is this?” he growls.

The guy on the other end of the line chuckles. Grant’s heart starts beating again. Fucking Derrick.

Under the guise of taking in the sights - not that there are any - Grant checks his surroundings before hopping onto the trunk. A thump sounds inside and he kicks the side; Bakshi should know better.

“What happened to never wanting to hear from me again?” Grant asks once he’s fairly sure there aren’t any snipers on top of Ms. Betty’s All Night Diner. It’s a little too coincidental, Derrick calling just when Grant’s only a few hours away.

“Says the guy who broke that deal in less than a day.”

Seeing as Grant technically did, he can’t argue the point. Instead he asks, “How’s Jennifer?”

Derrick lets out a harsh breath. “Very proud of her hero boyfriend. As expected.”

Grant waits a beat before saying a pointed “You’re welcome.”

“Yeah, fuck you. I’m not calling to catch up.”

“Then why?” He’s getting antsy. He wants to be back on the road. He wants to know where Jemma and Kara are.

“Someone stopped by to see me this morning. The director of SHIELD.”

“Fury?” Grant asks, hoping against hope.

“Nah, the new one. Coulson. Said he was looking for you.”

Grant’s head drops back and his eyes scrunch up. “Convenient,” he says, calm tone belying the _fuck the fucking fuck_ expression on his face. “I’ve been looking to get in touch with him myself.”

He really has. The last few days, he’s put out the word among his remaining contacts: he wants any intel on Phil Coulson’s current location. Unsurprisingly, as Coulson’s currently on the run, there’s been a whole lot of nothing coming back Grant’s way.

“Can’t say I was expecting that,” Derrick says, cutting into his thoughts. “Kinda makes me glad though.”

A beat up old minivan pulls off the highway. Kara’s in the front seat driving, and from this distance Grant can just make out Jemma smiling at him from the back. He breathes a little easier.

“Really? Would’ve thought you’d be on SHIELD’s side in all this.”

“Oh, I am. As much as a guy not looking to get back in the game can be. But I did go to kind of a lot of trouble to make sure Coulson’s not gonna be tracking this call. Now that I know you want to be found, it makes me all warm inside knowing I’ve set you back.”

Grant slides off the trunk while Kara pulls up to the pump behind his. “Yeah, good talking to you too.”

“Anything you want me to pass along if they come back?”

Jemma steps straight into Grant’s open arm, hugging him tight and making a sound like she slept most of the way here. He’s a little proud of that, seeing as they stopped early yesterday and she should’ve had plenty of time to rest. He kept her busy.

“Tell him I’ve got something he’s looking for,” Grant says.

Derrick laughs again and says something about being glad he’s done with this shit, but it’s Jemma’s questioning expression that holds Grant’s attention as the line goes dead.

“Just getting in touch with an old friend,” he says. “Says he might be able to pass along a message.”

“You could just tell them I’m with you,” she says. “That would likely get his attention far better than some ominous pseudo-threat.”

Grant slides his hands into her hair, holding her face so he can really look at her. He’s always liked doing it with women he was genuinely interested in, but something about doing with Jemma, who’s so damn _short_ , shifts the angle enough to make it better somehow. “True, but if I tell this guy who honestly hates me that I’ve got you, he could pass it along to Coulson or…”

“Or to Morse’s people,” Jemma supplies.

“Exactly.” Holding her is good for his still-racing heart, but he reluctantly lets her go so he can join Kara at the pump. “How was the drive?”

Kara meets his eyes and then sweeps a glance up and down the narrow street. “Fine. Got caught in a little traffic back there, but we made it.” One of her eyebrows arches in silent question.

Grant shakes his head. “Let’s switch.”

She frowns, obviously picking up on his agitation, but he keeps his casual expression in place. None of this changes the plan. They’re still gonna get in touch with Coulson, help him take down Morse and her traitors, it shouldn’t make any difference that Coulson’s looking for them too.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It does though. It makes a world of difference. Because much as he’s gonna love the look on Coulson’s face when the old man sees Jemma safe and sound and under his arm, he’s not looking forward to giving her anyone else to worry over. Right now it’s just him and Kara and, unfortunately, Bakshi. But once they find the others, she’s gonna be fussing over each and every one of them. And there’s no doubt in Grant’s mind they’re gonna use that one-on-one time with her to undo this.

He curls his fingers a little tighter around her while the buzz in the back of his brain starts to fade. It’s that really good buzz that’s been way too infrequent since the uprising but that’s definitely been making a comeback since the safe house.

Jemma’s heavy against his side and her hand moves slowly down to his newest scars, the ones he got in Puerto Rico. After a moment, she moves past them to a small, slightly round spot on his hip. Her middle finger circles it, making his still-simmering blood threaten to boil again.

“Pre-SHIELD,” he says, answering her silent question. He doesn’t think she _likes_ his scars, but she spends a lot of time on them. Touches them, kisses them. It’s enough to make the pain worth it.

She goes a little stiff and lifts her face. “Your family?”

There’s no fear or condemnation in her tone. Her hesitation isn’t over what he did after escaping, it’s for the pain he suffered in his childhood. He slides his hand up from the curve of her ass to rest between her shoulder blades.

“After.”

Her head drops down and he knows her hesitation now is all to do with their fight. She doesn’t want to talk about John. But he doesn’t want her pulling away from him, not with thoughts of Coulson’s impending arrival still hovering at the edges of his thoughts, so he rolls them slightly and moves her hand a few inches around towards his back. Curiosity has her angling to better see the puckered mess he points her to.

“A hunter got me with an arrow,” he says. “I was lucky it hit so shallow.”

She frowns, examining the scar with a doctor’s critical eye. “I don’t suppose you had a suture kit.”

“Nope.” He would; after that, it was high on his list of things to steal. But he got this in his first few weeks, back when he was still struggling to survive. “I’d read in school about soldiers burning wounds shut, so…”

The face she pulls - this perfectly Jemma mix of disgusted and indignant - is kind of adorable.

He sits up to kiss the first part of her he reaches - and it’s only half-coincidence that it’s her breast - then settles down again. “I think Buddy cried more than I did, to be honest.”

She’s still sitting up, his legs over hers and her fingers on the entry wound again. She’s got this smile on her face … He can’t place it.

“What?” he asks. “What’re you thinking?”

“Just that sometimes you remind me very much of that man on the Bus. I always had this mental image of him settling down with a trusty old dog one day.”

“Come on,” he says, only half as annoyed as he sounds. She’s talking about his cover without any bitterness, that’s a good thing. Even if she is kind of insulting him by doing it; that guy was a tool. “You don’t really think I’m like that.”

Her smile only grows. “Of course not. Because you don’t sound nostalgic at _all_  when you talk about Buddy.” She brushes her fingers through his hair and settles down beside him, close enough he can wrap an arm around her again. “What happened to him?”

His fingers curl at the small of her back and he must let something slip on his face because she shifts a little closer, saying, “You don’t have to tell me. It was so long ago, I can imagine-”

“I shot him,” he says quickly and feels her go cold. He forces himself not to pull her closer. “You were right, I got attached. And that’s how agents get killed so-”

“Garrett made you kill him,” she says. He could probably read that tone if he really wanted to, but he doesn’t so he focuses on the kiss she presses to his chest and the hand that wraps around his back. “I’m sorry.”

He thinks about that day. About Buddy running through the tall grass, searching for a duck he was never gonna find. About his own thoughts that this was better because what was he gonna do? Leave Buddy alone out here? Dumb dog wouldn’t survive a week. And if he took him away, he’d never be able to live in a house with a family. Even if he could, he’d just grow old and fat, spend his days getting his tail pulled by rugrats when he should’ve been out in the wilds, living off the land. He’d be miserable.

That’s what he told himself when he was twenty, anyway.

He still stands by the lesson. It was important and if John hadn’t drilled it into him then, Grant would be dead a dozen times over by now. But still.

“Me too,” he says, pressing a kiss to Jemma’s hair.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Technically, in their unofficial rotation of people and cars, Grant should be with Kara right now, but as that would leave Jemma alone with Bakshi, there was never any way in hell that was gonna happen. So Kara’s on her own and running ahead. The rest of them are settling in, making an early night of it. After two days driving from sun up to sun down, Grant’s finally got that itch off his back. He can relax, regroup, find Coulson before Coulson finds him.

To that end, Kara’s taking a pass around the city, scoping things out, and picking up some food while she shakes off anyone who might be following them.

“That’s her,” Jemma says when Grant’s cell rings. She’s sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed and only turns briefly to smile at him. After that, the smile’s for Bakshi. “Are you ready?” she asks earnestly.

“Ready for what?” Grant asks. After last time, he checks his caller ID. It’s the burner Kara’s been using. Something in Grant’s chest loosens in relief.

“Sunil is going to decide what he wants to eat,” Jemma says proudly. “Are you ready to tell her?”

Bakshi meets her smile with his same old, carefully closed off expression. Or maybe that’s just the blankness left after the brainwashing.

Grant rolls his eyes and, as the obnoxious standard ringtone starts up again, answers. “Kara? I hope you’re willing to wait; looks like it’s gonna be a while.”

Jemma throws him a dirty look softened by the curl still clinging to the corners of her lips. She turns back to Bakshi right away, encouraging him to remember what he liked before, and for the first time Grant’s not annoyed by her babying him. He’s even glad for it because it keeps her from seeing his face.

“I really hope it won’t be,” Coulson says on the other end of the line. “I was hoping we could catch up.”

 


	16. California

“Something wrong?” Jemma asks, all concern.

Grant smiles and pockets his phone. “Kara’s got a flat, that’s all. I’m gonna drive out and pick her up. It’s time we ditched that clunker anyway.”

She frowns over Kara being stranded, but doesn’t question his judgment about the car. “Be sure to empty it-”

“I know,” he says. Her brow wrinkles further at the interruption. He tries not to let his smile grow.

“We have _weapons_ in that car. I don’t want them falling into the hands of criminals or mentally unstable homeless or _children_.”

Grant sits forward. “Turn around, Bakshi,” he says.

Jemma’s frown turns unhappy again at the direct order, but he pulls her to him for a kiss before she can chastise him.

Grant doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like Coulson being the one to contact him. _He’s_ supposed to make first contact. _He’s_ supposed to throw Coulson off-balance by offering help. He’s supposed to swoop in, save the day, and make himself irreplaceable before Coulson has the chance to shoot him in the back.

He’s supposed to have more time.

His lungs start to burn and he breaks the kiss. His fingers are curled in her hair like he thinks if he holds her tight enough he can stop what’s coming. He untangles them slowly, not wanting to hurt her.

Her frown’s long gone as she pulls back, eyes dreamy and far away for a few seconds. “I, um-” she licks her lips- “I thought you had to pick up Kara.”

He brushes her hair down and plants a peck on her lips. “Just something to keep that genius brain of yours on me while I’m gone.” He slides his thumb over the still-healing cut on her forehead. “Don’t want you getting any ideas.”

She looks from him to Bakshi and back again. “Do you think you have some competition I don’t know about?”

He moves to pull his boots on. “Why? Would you have a problem with it if I was the jealous type?”

“I already know you’re the jealous type.” He’s afraid for a second he’s only imagining the fondness in her voice, but then she’s rubbing a hand over his bent back. “The mall in Georgia? You were angry those college students were staring and that was _long_ before we were having sex. _Oh_.” He catches a glimpse of her wincing look at Bakshi. Like he’s a kid who she just cursed in front of. Jeez.

He straightens and bites down on the urge to kiss her again. Two was fine, but if he goes for three she’s sure to pick up something’s wrong.

“I might be a while. We’ll need a new car.”

“That’s fine. More time for Sunil to decide what he wants.” With that her attention goes right back to Bakshi. Grant turns away from her fussing. He’s got work to do.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Paloma Park is quiet this time of day. School’s been out for a couple hours, so most kids have gone on home and most adults looking to use the paths or equipment are locked in their evening commutes or busy cooking dinner. All told, half the people Grant sees while he cuts across the grass are civilians. The other half…

Kara’s good. She’s wearing a worried look but other than the superstrong hand gripping her arm, she looks fine. On the bench next to her, Peterson looks like a total creep in his trench coat. If this meet was happening any earlier, some mom would for sure have called the cops to check out the flasher in the park.

The cowboy who tailed Grant after he escaped federal custody is here too, hanging out by the bus stop and looking as conspicuous as ever.

And then of course there’s Coulson, sitting on one of the benches, eating a hot dog he bought from the vendor on the corner. Grant takes the seat next to him.

“Sorry,” Coulson says. “I would’ve bought you one, but I wasn’t really sure you’d show.”

“You’re threatening Kara.”

“She’s a SHIELD agent; she’s in no danger from us.”

Grant scoffs. Yeah, he believes that.

Coulson tosses his wrapper in a nearby trashcan and dusts off his hands. He doesn’t look at Grant, keeps his eyes on a father and son playing basketball on one of the courts. “I’m here to offer you a deal,” he says after several seconds pass.

Grant stretches his legs out, crossing them at the ankle. Last time he talked to Coulson, it was all threats and promises, not a deal in sight. There’s every chance the last few months - the coup, the events in San Juan, losing one of the team - have brought him that low, but there’s a much bigger chance whatever he says next, Grant’s not gonna like it one bit.

“Freedom,” Coulson says. “A guarantee that SHIELD won’t ever come after you again.”

“Now why does that sound too good to be true?”

There’s another long beat and then, “You’ll be put through the TAHITI protocol.”

Grant laughs. There is no way in _hell_ he’s letting SHIELD play with his mind.

For the first time, Coulson turns to look right at him. “You’ll be free from all of it. SHIELD, HYDRA, Garrett, your family. We’ll take it all away, let you be your own man.”

There are arguments on the tip of Grant’s tongue, a lot of them, but he swallows them down. Coulson’s already thought of them all or he just doesn’t give a damn.

“And if I was,” he says slowly, “to take this deal, what would you want in return?”

Coulson smiles. “That’s how I know you’ll take it: I need your help to find Skye.”

It’s a good thing Grant’s a specialist, otherwise he might burst out laughing. Not that he doesn’t _care_ Skye’s missing, but Coulson’s so damn sure he’s still hung up on her, it’s almost sad.

He gives himself a minute to think about Jemma, to imagine her waiting in their room, trying to coax Bakshi into having a unique thought. And he reminds himself of his promise because it’s the only thing stopping him from shooting Mike and walking out of here with Kara.

Coulson fills him in on the details - a Gifted took her and HYDRA’s been tracking said Gifted for a while - all of which has exactly nothing to do with Morse. So Grant asks the obvious question:

“And how does this help you get SHIELD back?”

Coulson blinks once, then packs away his surprise behind that smiling mask of his. “You heard.”

“Director of SHIELD gets kicked out of his own base, word gets around. When you called, I kinda expected you to want help with that.”

The smile disappears. “I’m not bringing you back in so you can kill more good agents. You’re here to help the team.”

Grant lets his own smile drop. _Help the team?_ Jemma went missing _months_ ago and where was Coulson then? He sends Trip out on his own, private wild goose chase, but what else? Why wasn’t he offering Grant a deal to find _her_?

“All right,” Grant says, years of training cutting cleanly through his anger. “For the team. I’m sure Bakshi will be _happy_ to access HYDRA’s research for us.” Coulson’s whole face pinches up at the twist Grant puts on the words. “But we’re gonna revisit that brainwashing plan of yours later. I’ve seen that sort of thing up close and personal, and it is not pretty.”

Whatever Coulson has to say to _that_ , he keeps it to himself.

In just a few minutes, they’re on the move. Hunter and Kara to the quinjet Coulson’s got hidden somewhere, and Grant, Mike, and Coulson - after a brief delay at the car when Coulson insists (as if they didn’t just have a perfectly amicable sit-down in which no one was maimed or murdered) that Grant hand over all his weapons - to pick up Bakshi.

Grant focuses on the driving, on remembering which roads he took out here and which turns to take, not on what’s about to happen. He doesn’t think about the rocket launcher (whose idea was _that_ , John?) aimed at him all the while or the gun Coulson’s sure to have pressed up against the back of his seat. And he definitely doesn’t think about Jemma or what she’s gonna say or do or think or how much it’s gonna burn to watch Coulson and the rest protecting her from him, like he isn’t the one who’s been keeping her safe for _weeks_.

She made a promise too, he reminds himself as he pulls into the parking lot, and she’s a lot more reliable about keeping them than he is. It wasn’t a verbal one, but it was implied in every kiss and touch and smile. She said he didn’t have to worry about _Fitz_ for Christ’s sake. If that’s not a sign of commitment, he doesn’t know what is.

Like the drive over, Grant leads the way to the room in heavy silence.

“Sir,” Mike says while Grant goes right on sliding the key in the lock. “There are two people in there.”

Right, the eye. Well, not like they weren’t gonna find out right fucking now anyway.

Grant steps inside while Coulson’s still reaching for his gun. Jemma’s sitting on the bed, back to them, which is its own kind of relief: a few more seconds before everything changes.

“Hey, baby,” he says, coming up behind her while Bakshi scrambles to his feet. Grant ignores him in favor of swallowing up Jemma’s confusion with a kiss. She smiles against his lips and kisses him back, not a hint of hesitation anywhere in her. His worries melt away and he wonders, dimly, if she really has been thinking about that last kiss, waiting for him to come back. Was she thinking about dragging him down onto the bed? Because if it weren’t for their audience, he’d definitely be tempted to order Bakshi into the bathroom and climb on top of her.

Reluctantly, he pulls away with a rough, “Sorry.”

He’s got a hand on her neck and can feel her pulse pounding, but better than that is watching that brain of hers click slowly slowly _slowly_  back into motion.

“W-was that for the kiss or for something else?” she asks. Her expression clears into suspicion and he guesses there’s another question coming, but Coulson finds his voice before she can get it out.

“Jemma?” he asks, sounding like someone just socked him in the gut.

Grant steps back as Jemma’s head whips around. “Sir!” she says, breaking into the kind of smile Grant’s only seen on her face lately when it’s been just the two of them. She makes it halfway around the end of the bed, halfway to her feet, before she sees what Coulson does and her butt hits the mattress again.

She looks up at Grant, hurt in every line of her. For a few seconds, he can’t breathe in the face of her anger. Every thought he didn’t think on the ride over comes rushing back at once.

“You _ass._ ” 

Heat flares up in his chest. Why should she be angry? Unless she’s _ashamed_. Unless she wanted to hide it - hide _him_ \- from the team. All that talk about Skye and Fitz and shades of grey, and all the while she was planning on pretending this never happened. Turns out _he_ was the diversion.

He smiles tightly. “You knew that when you slept with me.”

 


	17. Quinjet

When they board the quinjet, Grant’s a little distracted between meeting Kara’s _all okay_ nod and watching Jemma hug Fitz, so he doesn’t notice the fist until it’s too close to deflect.

He hits the floor while around him the note of relief that Jemma’s alive has turned to chaos.

“You _son of a bitch_!” Trip yells while Coulson and the cowboy drag him back. “You knew! You _knew_!” Grant’s seen this anger before: it’s the same that had Trip cursing Garrett at the Hub way back when. Having it directed at him though, that’s something new, and Grant’s actually grateful Coulson and the other one are holding Trip back. “You looked me right in the eye and you told me you didn’t know where she was, you hadn’t heard a _fucking thing_!”

“You saw Trip?”

Like a switch has been flipped, everyone freezes. Trip stops his fighting, Coulson and the cowboy stop pulling at him, and Grant freezes halfway to his knees. Everyone looks to Jemma.

“When?” she asks, moving away from Fitz. But not, he notes, closer to him.

A thread of something - something Grant doesn’t want to identify even as it makes him want to grab her and run and hide - shoots through him. “Texas,” he says. “He’s how I got to Martinez.”

She’s mad. Face going pale, lips tightening into a line _mad_. But that’s nothing new, she’s been mad since the motel. He can see it simmering under the surface, hidden beneath some bullshit ice queen exterior. If it was just them, he’d tell her to let it out before she blows, but it’s not just them and, when she turns away, he doesn’t say a word to stop her.

And then it’s just like he thought it’d be. He gets to watch from the outside while Fitz and Trip and the cowboy (Hunter, she calls him, and Grant thinks he might’ve known that) all cluster around her, peppering her with questions, wrapping comforting arms around her shoulders, squeezing her knee like she needs the support.

Which she _doesn’t_. She’s _fine_. She even says so herself.

“Really?” Trip asks, reaching for the cut on her forehead. It’s a good thing he stops short of touching it or Grant might have to tear his hand off.

Hunter and Fitz both shoot Grant dirty looks like they think he did it.

“ _Really_ ,” Jemma insists. “Of all the injuries I’ve suffered lately, this one was no one’s fault.” She pitches the words a little loud, which could be because Mike’s got them lifting off to make the meeting Bakshi’s already made with List or it could be for Kara’s benefit. She’s still feeling guilty for locking Jemma in that trunk and the slow-fading cut on her forehead hasn’t made her feel any better.

“‘ _All_ the injuries’?” Hunter demands. Fitz looks like he’s about ready to jump from his seat. Grant really hopes he doesn’t; there’s no good way to defend himself from Fitz without looking like an ass and he’s done enough of that today.

“I am _fine_ ,” Jemma says again. “Now will you please tell me more about what’s happened since San Juan? Where’s Skye? And have you heard anything about May? Did she escape?”

Grant looks away while the conversation settles into something a lot less angry. Coulson’s sitting on the same side as all the others, leaving Grant, Kara, and Bakshi to themselves on the starboard side, but he’s down a few seats, leaving the younger men to fuss over Jemma without him. He’s still wearing that same look, the one he had on when he and Jemma left to talk outside in the car and the one he had on when they came back. He looks like his dog just died.

As Grant can pretty well imagine _why_ , he hasn’t given the look much thought, but now he wonders. A lot. He assumed the talk in the car was a rehash of the one he and Coulson had in the park: Skye’s missing, Coulson needs help, Grant’s a means to an end. But Jemma is downright dismayed when Fitz tells her Skye got chased down by Morse and disappeared with some eyeless teleporter. (He also tells her about Skye’s new powers and Grant starts making plans to escape before they actually find her; after their last run-in, he’s not looking forward to seeing what she’ll do to him with powers so strong they cause  _earthquakes_.) But if that’s all news to Jemma, then what were she and Coulson talking about?

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Well _sorry_!” Kara snaps. Grant turns in the direction of the cockpit just in time to see her mask shimmer. “I’ll remember next time I shouldn’t try to be nice to my _kidnapper_.” She heaves out of the copilot’s seat with a huff and stomps back to sit next to him again, leaving Mike to fly by himself.

The quinjet’s small, so everybody’s noticed her little blow up and, as she’s sitting next to him, Grant figures they’re all waiting on him to say something.

“Um, everything okay?”

She gives him a glare so strong he’s grateful she’s not wearing May’s face anymore.

“Seriously.” He drops his voice low enough the others’ll have to strain to hear and elbows her gently. “Are you okay?”

Her glare fades into a fond smile. “About time you asked. I’m fine. No harm done. Coulson even said I can have my old job back if I want it.”

Grant can’t help looking Coulson’s way at that, but whether because he overheard or he’s lost interest in the conversation, he’s back to studying that box of his. “Really?” Grant asks. “You gonna take it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” There’s something faraway in her tone, but it’s gone when she smiles up at him. “I was never gonna drive around with you forever.”

“Kara-” Grant starts.

She elbows him. “Shut up, Grant. For a specialist, you are remarkably bad at letting girls down easy, so please don’t even try.”

Grant’s mind snaps back to that night she snuck into his room, which has the unfortunate side effect of bringing this thoughts right back where he doesn’t want them to be: Jemma.

The guys are giving her her space. More or less. Fitz is still right there next to her and hasn’t stopped glaring at Grant for two seconds together since they lifted off. But Grant gets the feeling, from the pensive look on her face, that she’s more alone now than she ever was with him. Anger aside, the way she’s holding herself, it’s a lot like that day Morse proved herself a traitor.

Something bitter curls in his gut. Is she thinking about their inevitable run-in with her former friend? Or about someone else?

“Oh, that reminds me,” Kara says out of the clear blue.

Grant turns to her in confusion and instantly regrets it when her hand strikes his cheek so hard his neck strains to keep his head on straight.

There are notes of approval from Fitz and Trip, and somebody - Grant’s guessing that Hunter jackass - applauds.

“That was for kissing her just to piss off Coulson,” Kara says pleasantly. “We saw everything through his implants.”

Grant works his jaw carefully. That’s the second time in under an hour he’s been caught off guard by a blow. For a specialist, that kind of slip isn’t just bad luck, it’s downright terrifying. He’s off his game.

“Thank you, Kara,” Jemma says softly. They’re the first words she’s directed to this side of the plane since she turned her back on him. They’re not aimed at him and her eyes are firmly on Kara, refusing to focus on him right next to her, but none of that stops him from analyzing every word, every bit of her expression and posture.

He thinks he might know why he’s off his game.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He can’t think about Jemma. Not when her knuckles go white as the quinjet lands. Not when she defends Bakshi agreeing to hand Mike over to List. Not when Trip takes them up again to _follow_ Bakshi and List and she falls into his side on her way out of the cockpit.

But he does let himself think about her when they’re on the ground again. Things are, as expected, going to shit fast. All the heavy hitters, Coulson included, are heading into a building already crawling with HYDRA. That means it’s just gonna be her and Fitz, alone on the quinjet. The cloak’ll keep them hidden so long as no one tries to park on the top of this parking garage, but once they’re found, neither of them has the skills necessary to fly them to safety, wherever that might be these days.

So he lets himself wander to her side of the plane while he’s tightening his tac vest, keeps his eyes on the straps and clips while he asks, “You still got your knife?”

She seems surprised to hear him talking to her and throws a quick look down towards the others. He grits his teeth, pretends it doesn’t bother him she’s looking for support just because he asked her a fucking question.

“Yes,” she says softly. Her hand goes to the side of her knee, her fingers curl along the seam of her jeans. Knife’s in her boot.

“Good. Keep it close. Be ready if-” There are a million ways this already shit plan can divert into even worse shit, he can’t plan for all of them. “If I don’t make it back in time.” They’ve got comms for this, routed through the quinjet’s systems, he’ll know if anything happens up here.

Her expression goes hurt and guarded. “I will.”

“Ward!” Coulson snaps from down the ramp. “Let’s move!”

“On my way, sir,” Grant says, forcing himself to turn away from Jemma. She’ll be fine. She has to be.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a good thing Grant didn’t try to plan because there’s no way he could’ve expected a guy who shoots _lightning_ to show up. (And no, he’s not talking about Thor. That he _could’ve_ planned for.) He and Skye’s dad make trouble. HYDRA makes trouble. Hunter gets shot in the leg. (That part’s not so bad.) The Thor wannabe gets captured by HYDRA, along with Mike. Oh, and the wannabe SHIELD is gonna be on them soon because Skye apparently _called them_ ; intel they get from her right before Eyeless shows up to take her - and her dad - back to Neverland.

Awesome.

But Grant gets to shoot a lot of people which, after the last few hours, is really good for his nerves.

“We gotta bolt,” Trip says. His voice is a little strained because he and Kara are supporting Hunter. “We stay, we end up like May.”

A muscle in Coulson’s cheek ticks at the mention. “No,” he says after a moment, “Mike and-” He hesitates; looks like the new guy was as much a surprise to him as he was to Grant. “They need our help and we don’t have the resources to get into HYDRA on our own, even with Bakshi.” He pins Grant with a sour look.

“So what’s the plan, boss?” Grant asks, ignoring the obvious disapproval of his methods. Not like Coulson was complaining about the brainwashing while it was benefiting him. Or when he was talking about doing it to Grant.

Coulson smiles. “We ask for help.”

There’s a lot of arguing as the reality of that plan sinks in, most of it from Jemma over the comms. Eventually Coulson shuts his off entirely and uses his dad voice to talk over the rest of them.

“We were always gonna make nice with Gonzales eventually, better sooner than later. Get back to the quinjet and be ready to tail us, there’s no telling if we’ll head to the Playground or _the Iliad_.”

Hunter has some inventive curses to apply to the situation while he’s half-carried away, but Grant hangs back.

“Did Jemma tell you-”

“About Columbia?” Coulson asks. “Yeah, she did. You might want to tell Hunter you shot his ex while he’s too injured to kill you.”

Grant smiles tightly, he can handle Hunter. “I meant about May ordering Jemma to _run_. She didn’t trust these people.”

“I know.” Coulson’s voice is heavy. In fact, now that Grant really looks, Coulson looks about ten years older than he did after the uprising. It’s been a hell of a year. “But war makes for strange bedfellows.”

As Grant himself is evidence of, but he can’t help answering. “That’s politics, sir.”

Coulson smiles. “You come from a political family, Ward. You know the two go hand-in-hand. Now go. Gonzales’ people see me with you, they won’t hesitate to shoot either of us.”

Grant knows a losing argument when he’s in one. He jogs out the door, in a hurry to catch up before Trip decides to take off without him. But he’s not going too fast, not fast enough to miss a threat HYDRA might’ve left behind, so he’s close enough to hear Coulson mutter to himself a second later.

“And Simmons will never forgive me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Trip _doesn’t_ take off without him. Quinjet’s waiting right where he left it. Which is as much a surprise as the damp attitude he finds when he boards. Sure, they lost Mike and Hunter’s injured and Coulson’s about to hand himself over to the enemy, but it didn’t go _that_ badly for one of Coulson’s plans.

“What…?” he asks Kara, figuring she’s the most likely to answer him. She’s standing against the pilot’s seat, arms crossed and looking about as small as she did back when she was still struggling with her programming.

She opens her mouth to answer but never manages it, just looks at Jemma. Who, it turns out, is sporting some very heavy new jewelry around her wrist. Somehow, in the time since he left her, she’s been handcuffed to her goddamn seat.

“What happened?” Grant demands.

“She wanted to convince Coulson to come back up with us,” Trip says, not for a second distracted from his examination of Hunter’s leg in the middle of the cabin.

“It was the only way to stop her leaving,” Fitz puts in.

Grant breathes out slowly, using it to anchor himself. It’s not like a pair of handcuffs is the worst of the restraints she’s had in the last few months. In fact, thinking of Martinez’ method of keeping her under control, they’re downright cozy.

“You okay?” Grant asks, stepping a little closer so he can better see her arm. The cast may be off but that’s no reason to go aggravating it trying to get free.

“ _I’m_ not the one about to hand myself over to traitors,” she says. She’s really looking at him, got that whole earnest, heartfelt thing going on. Damned if it doesn’t pull at his withered, black heartstrings. “You have to get him out of there. Please, Grant.”

He holds up his hands. “Coulson’s made his decision and he’s not likely to listen to me anyway.”

Her pleading expression turns to exasperation. “We both know you don’t need to _convince_ Coulson of anything. You’re twenty years younger than him and a specialist besides; bring him back!”

“Simmons!” Fitz yells, scandalized. Trip turns away from Hunter to give her an incredulous look and the cowboy doesn’t even care because he’s wearing an identical one.

“Morse can’t be trusted,” Jemma presses. “You know the things she’s done.”

Kara’s shoulders shift, but the three stooges are still too horrified that Jemma’s asking Grant to _physically subdue_ Coulson to notice. Grant does though and he meets Kara’s eyes, waiting to see what she says about it.

“She’s right,” she says. “Morse can’t be trusted. But we also know what HYDRA does to people. We can’t leave Mike.”

“You know,” Hunter says, voice a little too high and tight through the pain, “I think it’s funny you’re talking like you have any say in this. Coulson’s the man in charge around here.”

“Is he though?” Grant asks lightly. “You seem to be having trouble counting because I’ve got two perfectly healthy people and you’ve got Fitz and a busted leg.”

“Yeah,” Hunter says, “but I bet my man Trip could take you, and I’m sure Simmons’d be happy to shoot you after that little show you put on earlier.”

Grant wants so so badly to tell him he was counting Jemma on _his_ side, but she stops him with a pleading, “Grant.”

He sighs and snatches the keys from Fitz’s hand. “Coulson knows what he’s doing,” he says while he drops to her feet to uncuff her. “We follow his lead.”

“Bobbi-”

“Is probably still out of commission.”

She flinches at the reminder but she doesn’t look sorry. Good girl.

“And we know what she is now. She’s not gonna trick any of us again, okay?”

Jemma worries her lip. Grant resists the urge to pull it free by sliding his fingertips along her palm as he pulls the cuff away.

“We’ve gotta find Mike - and Skye,” he adds, remembering she was the point of all of this, “this is how we do it. All right?”

Her eyes dart to Kara, then drop to her knees. She nods once and pulls her hands into her lap, away from him. He pushes away the hollow the move leaves in his chest and stands, pocketing the cuffs as he goes.

“Good.” In no mood to climb over Trip and Hunter to get to the other side, so he flops into the seat one down from Jemma, and is immediately met with a suspicious glare from Hunter.

“Why is Bobbi _out of commission_?” he asks tightly.

“Oh, that. I shot your ex-wife. You’re welcome.”

The chaos that comes after that is a beautiful thing, not to mention the perfect way to pass the time while they wait for Coulson to be captured.

 


	18. the Playground

For a second, Grant seriously considers firing the engines back up and getting the hell out of dodge while he’s still got his memories and his freedom. Nothing to stop him, either. The others are all disembarking - Fitz was long gone the second they landed, Jemma and Trip are supervising Hunter’s transfer to real medical care, and Kara’s hovering at Jemma’s elbow because she’s not stupid - no one’s watching Grant, he’s still at the controls, and the doors are still open above him. It’d be easy to fly out of here.

So easy.

“What-!”

“Hey! What d’you think you’re doing?”

Grant’s up and out of the cockpit at the first sound of Jemma’s voice. She’s being cuffed. Some asshole is manhandling her while a different asshole holds Kara back and Trip and Coulson argue with a man Grant guesses to be Gonzales.

A single shot, aimed at the ceiling, is enough to shut them all up. Grant levels the pistol at the one holding Jemma. “And I thought we were all friends here.”

“Ward,” Coulson says. He’s using that dad tone he used to get on the Bus, like he thinks Grant needs more warning aside from the twenty guys all aiming their own weapons at him from around the hangar. “Put it down.”

“Just as soon as these idiots let go of Jemma and Kara, I’ll be happy to.”

“Agent Palamas can be released, pending the results of her debrief,” Gonzales says. Like Grant was talking to him. “Miss Simmons will be detained until we can determine the extent to which she’s been compromised.”

“What!” Jemma demands.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Trip looks to Coulson in disbelief.

The only thing that stops Grant from shooting Gonzales in the head right here is that he can’t shoot him and the guy holding Jemma both, so he’s a little torn. And it looks like Kara’s in the same boat, unsure, now that she’s been let go, who she should lunge at.

“This wasn’t part of the deal,” Coulson says tightly.

Grant lets off another shot, this one into the brick wall so he doesn’t have to shift his aim too far from the real target. “I have all the same training you idiots do,” he says, pitching his words to the two agents trying to sneak up on him from either side. “You back off now or I really will shoot someone.”

Gonzales waves them off, not looking the least put out by the circumstances. “It was,” he argues calmly. “We agreed that the traitors would be held until their expertise was required.”

Grant grits his teeth. Better than a permanent stay in that cell, but still not all that fun.

“We don’t know yet whether Agent Palamas has willfully acted against SHIELD in the time since the events in San Juan, but we know for a fact Mr. Ward and Miss Simmons have. Not to mention Mr. Ward’s numerous traitorous activities prior to that.” There are a lot of dissenting voices to that - not the part about Grant, of course, but everyone’s eager to defend Jemma - but Gonzales overrides the all. “We know she was an accessory to the attempt on Agent Morse’s life.”

“I’m the one who took that shot,” Grant says into the ensuing silence.

“Yes,” Gonzales agrees, “and Simmons lured her into the trap.”

“No!” Kara says, rushing forward. “It was me. I did it. Jemma wasn’t even there.”

“Kara-” Jemma says.

“I did it!” Kara insists, using Jemma’s voice and face.

For the first time, Gonzales looks genuinely thrown. Did he seriously not know about Kara’s mask or is he that self-important he thinks he knows everything?

“No,” Jemma says firmly. She meets Gonzales’ eyes. “It was me. I told Grant to shoot her - to _injure_ , not to kill - and I had every reason to do it.”

“Simmons-” Coulson warns.

“ _She_ betrayed SHIELD!” Jemma snaps, loud enough the words echo off the walls. “She betrayed Kara to HYDRA. Or does it only count as betrayal when it’s against _your_ people?”

Grant’s proud of her. For about half a second before the complete dumbass on his left makes a move, running flatout at him. Grant puts him on the ground fast, but not fast enough. His gun’s gone, and the very helpful agent who held Kara before has aimed his own sidearm at Jemma. Grant holds his stare, taking the time to commit his face to memory.

“You’ll both be detained until SHIELD has need of your services,” Gonzales says. Then, more gently he says to Jemma, “I do hope you come to your senses.”

Four agents take on the work of cuffing and searching Grant for more weapons while Jemma’s escorted out and Kara’s pulled off in another direction. He can’t protect them.

“I got ‘im,” Trip says, waving off the crowd. He doesn’t see Gonzales nodding them away, but Grant does. Looks like none of Coulson’s people are being welcomed back with open arms.

He searches where the others already have and Grant feels the slide of something long and thin and lock pick-shaped against the side of his foot. He holds back a smile; one good thing about Gonzales, he’s really bringing the old team back together.

“Make sure Jemma gets her arm looked at,” Grant says while Trip leads him out. Trip shoots him a look and he explains, “She never did. Before.” That loser Jeff putting a cast on it absolutely does not count as real medical care, no matter how many times she said it was fine.

Trip nods. “Will do. And you watch yourself. Nobody around here’s gonna have time to worry about you slicing your own wrists open if you get antsy down there.”

Yeah, and nobody who’d bother saving him has access to the security feed anymore, which means if Gonzales and his people decide they really don’t want a former HYDRA agent in the basement, nobody has to know.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Grant knew it’d come to this. He’s known since the second they turned inland that he’d end up back in Vault D. It’s not forever. It probably won’t even be that long.

Doesn’t stop the walls from slipping closer every time he closes his eyes.

He doesn’t bother trying not to let it get to him - that’s a battle he’s already lost - but he tries not to let it show. He lays down in the bed, drifts off as much as a man of his training can when he knows danger might come from any corner. There are dreamy wisps of real sleep floating through his thoughts, trails he only follows, never directs, but a lot of them lead to a room where they strap him down and steal his whole life from him or to Jemma pacing a cramped cell or to Kara practically tying the noose herself while she’s debriefed.

It’s a relief when the door opens and he has the excuse to climb out of bed, leaving those thoughts behind.

May and a couple of grunts are coming down the steps. She isn’t in any hurry, which maybe has something to do with the faded bruising on her face and the way she takes every other step just a little faster than the rest. She watches him the whole way - because he’s a threat, because she wants to get his measure after all this time, because she’s trying to blow up his brain with her mind, who’s to say?

Whatever her injuries, she doesn’t bother with the chair. She stands at parade rest right in front of him, just as far from the line as he is. The other two back her up and one of them starts fiddling with the tablet. “You took the shot in Columbia?” she asks.

He nods. “Yep.”

“You’ve been protecting her?”

Some of Grant’s bravado flees as he hesitates. He’s been trying. But he hasn’t done a very good job if they’ve both ended up in prison cells. And even before this she was kidnapped, beaten, nearly murdered… “Did my best.”

May scoffs.

“She’s alive, isn’t she? Not happy to comply?” Not at all; even since South Carolina, she’s still a monumental pain in his ass. “Better than she would’ve been in Whitehall’s hands.” He looks to her bruises. “Or maybe even yours.”

May’s eye on that side twitches and she marks the others’ locations. She’s not happy to have a chaperone. “Did you hurt her?”

“No.” He could’ve - maybe even should’ve a time or two - but he didn’t and he wouldn’t.

“Good.”

Tweedle Dee finally makes some headway with the tablet and the barrier opens far enough a man can walk through. May steps forward through the hole.

“You’d better keep an eye on her,” she says, passing him by, “or not even the TAHITI machine will be able to erase the mental scars I give you.” She flops down on the bed, looking for all the world like she’s fallen right to sleep.

“Move it!” Tweedle Dum snaps. “You’ve got work to do.”

Grant spares May another glance, files away the sight of her trapped in his cell to enjoy later, and then follows Gonzales’ men out.

 


	19. SHIELD-616

“These people hate you,” Kara reminds him. Not like Grant needs it. He just spent the last few hours in a room with Coulson and that Gonzales guy, hammering out the plan for this mission. More than once he thought he might only have been there so they had something they both could agree on. (Hating him, naturally.)

Fitz passes them by on his way up the ramp. Grant holds his stare, lets it carry his attention to the foot of the stairs.

“Not everyone,” he says, willing Jemma to look his way. She doesn’t.

She’s not supposed to be here. Not only is this the worst possible plan for her to be a part of - HYDRA wants her dead and the way they’re getting inside is gonna be brutal - but her presence will make what he’s gotta do that much harder.

Kara mutters something he chooses to misunderstand. “That only makes it worse for the rest of them. They all want to shoot you in the back.”

He grins. “Jemma saved me last time.”

“ _I_ saved you. Jemma helped.”

Barking out a laugh isn’t a good move right now. Too many jittery agents milling around. Too many people who, yeah, want him dead. So he kisses Kara on the forehead and pulls her into a hug. “You sure you don’t wanna come? Plenty of room.”

She holds him tight. “Storming a HYDRA base isn’t exactly my idea of a fun time, and I’m sick of your stink anyway.”

His heart trembles a little when he steps back from her. He feels like a kid afraid to leave his mom on the first day of school. Only this is worse because he knows he might never see Kara again. Not because of the mission, but because he’s _out_. It’s obvious Coulson isn’t looking to take down Gonzales and Morse, he wants to make nice with the traitors. The ones who aren’t Grant, anyway, leaving him with nothing to do except be TAHITI’d. So while the others are escaping the HYDRA base, Grant’ll be escaping them.

And Kara’s staying behind.

“Besides,” she says with a grin, “Morse and I have a lot of catching up to do.”

Oh, he’s sure. If Morse is very, _very_ lucky, Kara’ll beat her ass in the training yard and call it a day. If she’s not, this is day one of a very long, very painful acquaintance. Either way, Grant’s sorry he’s gotta miss it.

“I’m sure you do.”

He glances over his shoulder again. Can’t help it. Jemma’s there. Right there. And she won’t even look at him.

“Take care of her,” Kara says. “And-” Her hesitation is enough to get him looking at her over Jemma. She rolls her eyes and now she’s the one who won’t look at him. “If Mike’s dead, promise you’ll burn that place to the ground.”

“Pretty sure that’s the plan regardless.” He considers her for a few seconds. The averted eyes. The uncertain posture. And, finally, it clicks. “You like Peterson.”

She gives him a look that would send a lesser man running. “So what if I do? I’m allowed to like things.”

He nods, remembering when she couldn’t even decide which shirt to steal from the donation bin. “You are. Stay safe.”

This time she rolls her eyes at him. “You too.” She waves to Jemma one last time and then she’s gone.

Ramp lifts. Air pressure seals. It’s just the team. Jemma, Fitz, Trip, Coulson. Everyone but Skye and May, who’s still being held in his old room against Coulson’s good behavior. Grant’s just glad it’s not him.

“Like old times,” he says into the awkward silence. “More or less.” He gets a few glares for his effort. Come on, he’s trying here.

A brief hum like an electrical discharge sounds from upstairs. They all look up and, before anyone can tell him what the hell that was, Skye emerges onto the catwalk. Because of course she does. Has she been up there this whole time? Browsing facebook in her old bunk until the newbies were out of sight?

“Hi, guys. Miss-” She cuts off with a sound that cannot possibly be described as human and rushes down the stairs so fast it’s a miracle she doesn’t break her own neck.

She might break Jemma’s though. She hugs her so tight she’s sure to be doing some kind of damage.

“You’re alive,” she says. Then over and over while Jemma hugs her back.

“I am.”

That’s obviously gonna last a while. Coulson gives Trip a signal to head up, get them off the ground before Gonzales starts to wonder what’s taking so long. Grant’s not sure whether it’s a good or bad sign that Coulson’s not having him fly. He knows where they’re headed better than Trip does, that’s for sure, but this way he’s free to roam the Bus during the flight. It’s a toss up.

“How?” Skye demands, all of a sudden gripping Jemma’s shoulders and holding her at arm’s length. “When we couldn’t find you-”

“Ward.” It’s not Jemma who says it, it’s Fitz. Jemma winces. “He had her. This whole time.”

“ _What_.” A tremor like the plane lifting off runs through the floor beneath Grant’s feet. He wonders if she’s spent her time away getting a handle on that.

“Skye,” Coulson says levelly, shutting down what Grant’s sure would’ve been a real fun conversation. “What are you doing here? What happened?”

Skye spares a glare for Grant, but apparently she’s become too good an agent in his absence to ignore a direct order. “HYDRA has Lincoln.”

There’s a little confusion there; none of them know anyone named Lincoln, but it comes out quick enough he’s the Thor wannabe from Milwaukee. Skye somehow convinced the teleporter who kidnapped her in the first place to bring her back so she could convince SHIELD to mount a rescue. Convenient. Oh, and she knows all this because Raina’s clairvoyant now.

Grant is really regretting teaming up with these people again.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Oh!” Jemma nearly runs right into him on her way out of one of the bunks. Skye’s, for some reason. “Sorry.”

“No harm done.” His hands hover at her hips, not touching but not letting her pass him by the way she obviously means to.

She looks at him - really looks at him for the first time in ages - and he feels sick. Two days ago she loved him. It was in her smile when he walked in a room, in her hands when they touched him, and most of all, in the way her eyes would light up just because he was around. They don’t light up now.

“Listen,” he says softly, “I know this isn’t how it was supposed to be-”

She laughs, looks away from him again. Fuck.

“Coulson making nice with Gonzales, HYDRA getting into the mix … this wasn’t exactly the plan.”

“You betraying us,” she says like she’s adding onto the list. It’s so soft if he wasn’t standing right in front of her, if the Bus’s engines were even a little louder, he’d never hear her at all. But he does. His hands drop to his sides.

He isn’t sure what to say to that. He isn’t sure what he _can_ say to that. So he’s damn grateful when Skye appears in the lounge.

“Hey,” she says in that cold tone she used on him in Vault D. Jemma flinches, and the lines around her mouth and eyes grow deeper. “Leave her alone.”

Grant looks from her to Jemma, who’s practically curling in on herself trying to put space between them. He pastes on a smile. “I was just going to see Trip.”

He turns his back on them both, marches into the cockpit, and sits his ass down. Trip doesn’t blink, but he does calmly hand him the co-pilot’s headphones. Weird. As weird as Trip wearing his, since they’re not about to check-in with anyone while they’re up here.

Grant puts them on and instantly realizes why. Trip’s got the Bus’s internal communications running; he can hear everything the girls are saying.

“No” is the first thing Grant hears, coming from Jemma. “No, I swear, he didn’t-”

“So what? You went with him … willingly?”

“No. It’s just- it’s complicated.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

Jemma’s quiet for a long time, long enough Grant wonders if she just up and walked away.

“Fitz said he brainwashed Bakshi,” Skye says finally. “So maybe … maybe that’s what-”

“I am not _brainwashed_.”

“You wouldn’t know! And no one would blame you-”

“But you will if I genuinely care for him? Those are my choices? That I’ve been tortured into loving him or I’m condemned for it?”

“That’s not what I meant! I just- Fitz said you were pretty beat up, that Trip even had them do x-rays when you got back to base.”

“Yes. Because a very dangerous man had me beaten in hopes of coercing me into working for him. Grant _saved_ me.”

No mention of him leaving her with Martinez in the first place. Nothing about the off-roading in the trunk of a car that didn’t do her any favors. The omissions might mean nothing. To Grant, they mean everything.

“‘Grant’ huh?” Skye asks, most of her anger gone.

“Yes,” Jemma says shakily.

Skye sighs so loud the mics pick it up. “Are you sure you can trust him?”

For the first time, Trip looks Grant’s way while Jemma hesitates. Grant doesn’t return the favor. He doesn’t give a shit what Trip thinks, he cares about Jemma.

“As much as I can trust anyone else.”

There’s nothing but silence after that; Grant imagines Jemma made one hell of an exit there. After about a minute Trip toggles the comm control, shutting off the mic.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The briefing is terrible. Four people who hate him, all making it perfectly clear they’d like nothing more than to shoot him and wing the rest of the op without his help, and one who won’t even look straight at him. He fills them in on Bakshi’s intel - both what he knew about List’s base before and what he’s managed to leak to them over secure channels since Milwaukee - as quickly as possible.

And good thing too because almost as soon as he finishes, the warning alarm sounds. They’re close.

“You all know what to do,” Coulson says, and then they’re off. Everyone’s in motion, grabbing packs and weapons, racing for the quinjet parked on the roof.

The op is gonna be a shitstorm. Coulson, Trip, and Fitz off to get the intel that’s the only reason Gonzales green lighted this mission. And Jemma, Skye, and Grant hunting down Mike and Lincoln, assuming the two are even still alive when they get there. He didn’t mention it but, from what little Bakshi’s said on their conditions in his communiqués, it’s not looking likely.

But the op will be a cakewalk compared to this. Trip’s got the lucky job of piloting them through the barrage from down below and the remains of the Bus as it’s destroyed beneath them  _and_ making it look like they’re just an overlarge piece of wreckage all the while. That leaves Grant free to do what he really wants, which is to beat Skye to the free seat next to Jemma.

Skye glares. Fitz glares. Coulson glares. It’s a whole lot of what he’s seen before. But he doesn’t pay attention to them. He pays attention to Jemma and how completely fucking terrified she is right now. Seriously, he never would’ve okayed this part of the plan if he knew she’d be tagging along.

Her eyes are shut and her face is screwed up in concentration. One of her hands releases its death grip on the straps holding her into place the second he straps himself in. He doesn’t bother to wonder how she knows he’s there or if she even knows it’s him, he just holds her hand tight all the way down.

 


	20. Arctic HYDRA base

“Sir?” Bakshi asks, visibly thrown when Grant arrives with the whole entourage in tow.

“It’s all according to plan,” Grant soothes. “We clear to move?”

Bakshi hesitates, his gaze cutting to the others.

“Hey. You remember your orders, right?” To the team the question probably sounds a lot like a smack to get Bakshi in line, but it’s really a reminder. Grant could use another pair of eyes looking out for Jemma on this one.

Bakshi straightens. “Of course, sir. Happy to comply. The nerve center is that way, but I’m afraid-”

“We’ve seen the specs,” Coulson cuts in. They know this is where they’ll have to split up. He takes them all in with a glance. “Let’s move.”

Trip gives Grant a nod over Fitz’s head before moving out. Grant returns it automatically, not really meaning the agreement it implies. They’re the heaviest hitters on this team, it’s up to them to get everyone back safely. Only Grant’s not planning on coming back.

Trip’s not the only one with a last second message. Fitz is holding Jemma’s hand and giving Grant a death glare. “Be careful,” he says.

“I’ll be fine,” Jemma says. “Try not to get flustered.”

Fitz’s mouth twitches. He obviously wants to say something but there’s no time. Grant grabs Jemma’s shoulder.

“We gotta move,” he says. Trip and Coulson are already way too far ahead and if Fitz dies, it’s definitely gonna slow everybody down. Jemma comes along quick enough - too quick, really; she steps out of his reach to shadow Skye - but Fitz spares him another moment.

It’s even odds whether he’s pissed about the whole betrayal thing or Grant getting Jemma. His look of impotent hatred would be funny any other day. But today, with the mission and Jemma’s cold shoulder and Grant’s own impending run for freedom hanging over him, it’s just annoying.

In a few hours Fitz is gonna be back in that shitty base of Coulson’s, consoling Jemma and worming his way into the hole Grant’s gonna leave and there’s not a damn thing Grant can do to stop it.

“Take care of yourself,” he says. Jemma’s gonna need him alive.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Turns out Grant and Trip aren’t the only heavy hitters on the team. Skye’s skills haven’t improved all that much since San Juan - probably has something to do with being kidnapped away to Shangri-La, guess they don’t have gyms there - but her powers give her a hell of an edge. She takes out three heavily armed agents with nothing but a wave of her hand and a cocky grin.

Grant’s gotta admit, even though he’s definitely not interested in going back down that road, it’s kinda hot.

“Well,” he says, stepping out from cover to survey the damage, “you’re welcome.”

Skye gives him an incredulous look and he can feel Jemma doing the same. It itches at his neck, but he doesn’t dare turn for fear of spooking her.

“What,” Skye says levelly. “You do know that _I_ took down those guys? Not you. Right?”

He grins. “Yeah. Because you went down into the city, which you wouldn’t have done if I hadn’t-”

Skye makes a frustrated noise that is not even a little covert. If he was still her SO, he’d take her to task for it. But that’s May’s job these days, so he just chuckles after her and finally turns.

Jemma looks away like a frightened mouse the second his eyes fall on her.

“Jem,” he says. He’s only got a little more time. There’s gotta be something he can say - that he’s not trying to hurt her, that he heard what she said to Skye, that it was real - but he can’t figure out what won’t sound like an admission of guilt.

“Come on.” Skye’s doubled back. She grabs Jemma’s hand and drags her away before Grant can sort through his thoughts. Bitch.

It’s not like they can’t trust him around Jemma. She spent months alone with just him and Kara - who wasn’t exactly in a position to step in if things got ugly - and she’s fine. He can be trusted to talk to her for thirty seconds.

“Sir.”

“What is it, Bakshi?” Grant readies his pistol and moves to cover Jemma’s rear.

“I need to speak with you.”

“Is it about a trap HYDRA’s set up for us?”

“No.”

“Is it anything that could compromise this mission?”

Bakshi hesitates a second longer than Grant’s really comfortable with, but he does say, “No.”

“Then I don’t care.”

Bakshi crowds him at the next corner. Jemma and Skye are on the other side of the narrow hall and Bakshi practically molests Grant so he can get close enough to urgently whisper, “It’s about a danger to yourself. These SHIELD agents you brought with you, they can’t be trusted.”

Grant shakes him off while he fights to hold down a laugh. He nods to Skye, giving her the all-clear, and she and Jemma move out.

“No, they cannot,” he agrees. “But don’t you worry. You just take care of Jemma and I’ll handle the rest, all right?” He’ll leave Bakshi too, he decides. No point taking him and while SHIELD is sure to trust him even less than they trust Grant, he’s at least one more person in the Playground who’ll watch her back.

“Yes, sir.” That’s the blind compliance Grant likes to hear.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mike looks like he got run over by a train. HYDRA’s reclaimed his implants, leaving him bruised and swollen from the probably not-too-gentle surgeries. He’s still lucid though, which is pretty impressive since Grant knows HYDRA doesn’t care enough to waste painkillers on their lab rats. He tells them Lincoln was dragged out not too long ago and taken to surgery.

Skye can’t be bothered to stay after that and Bakshi goes with her to make sure she can find the right room.

“Seriously?” Mike asks while Jemma looks him over.

“They must have left the internal implants,” she says, feeling his chest, “otherwise you’d certainly be dead.”

“Simmons. Come on. You can’t seriously be with this creep. He’s playing you, gotta be.”

“I’m standing right here,” Grant says because Mike’s kinda half-blind right now and might’ve missed him staying behind.

“I know.”

Jemma sighs. She sounds so tired Grant swallows down the insult on the tip of his tongue. “He’ll need a stretcher,” she says, sending Grant a pleading look.

He hesitates, pretends he’s not really sure if he should go, just for a few seconds. Can’t really be helped; she’s _looking_ at him. He’s gonna miss that. So he takes the second to burn her face into his memory before going.

This one last thing, the stretcher for Mike, and then he’s out of here. The labs butt up against the kitchens - which is an arrangement Grant doesn’t even wanna think about it - and there won’t be much resistance to be found there, meaning he can cut through them to the hangar instead of taking the sure to be well-guarded hall connecting it to the labs. Once he’s there, all he’s gotta do is steal a plane and he’s out, free as a bird, no one to worry about except himself.

He shakes the stretcher he finds in storage down the hall to make sure it’s strong enough to hold Mike’s weight, thinking the plan sounds almost as bad as letting Coulson- who’s he kidding? - as letting Gonzales’ people go playing in his brain. But almost isn’t worse, it isn’t giving up his life to the enemy. He’ll take it and live with the consequences. At least he’ll live.

“Gr- _ah!_ ”

Grant whirls, hands pulling out his gun without thought. It’s leveled before he can make sense of the scuffle happening against the shelves. There’s Bakshi, fighting someone much smaller who Grant IDs a second later as Jemma. She uses what little weight she’s got to force him back, but he’s stronger and bigger and keeps his hold even when the breath oomphs out of him.

“Bakshi!” Grant bellows, terror gripping him tight as Bakshi pulls Jemma’s gun from its holster.

He looks up, just for a second. Then there’s a flash and he’s screaming in unexpected pain. The gun slips from his fingers as his whole body curls around the spot where blood is spurting from his thigh. The flash comes again, and this time Grant sees it’s in Jemma’s hands. It’s her knife.

Bakshi’s grip has come loose, enough Jemma can twist so that this time the knife hits higher, center mass. She drives it into his stomach and then twists it up, just the way he taught her.

She stumbles away. The knife clatters to the floor as Bakshi’s feet fail him.

It all takes maybe twenty seconds.

Grant moves forward, catching Jemma under her arms and sinking to the floor with her.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay.”

She’s shaking. There’s blood on her hands. Her breath’s coming in too short and ragged. She’s going into shock.

“Breathe,” he orders. She turns in his lap, lifts unsteady fingers to grip his tac vest. He brushes her hair from her face, presses his warm hands to her icy cheeks. “Just breathe.”

“I don’t know what happened,” she says. “He came out of nowhere-” She hiccups, but it sounds more like a sob.

What the hell was Bakshi thinking? He knew his orders; Grant repeated them less than half an hour ago. He knew the priority was-

Realization hits him like that train that took Mike down. Bakshi was talking about a threat to Grant’s life and he told him to _take care_ of Jemma. God, how could he be so stupid?

He presses his forehead to hers, breathing her in and reassuring himself she’s all right. He fucked up, but she’s all right.

Too soon - way too soon - her hands on his vest start pushing instead of pulling. “You have to-” She swallows, tries to find her voice. Her face is covered in tears and her skin’s scary pale, the way it was when they made that daring escape back in Miami.

“Shh, it’s okay, baby. I’m right here.”

She shakes her head. “You have to _go_. That’s what I was coming to tell you: Coulson’s planning on using the TAHITI machine on you. I tried to talk him out of it, but he’s determined that you deserve a second chance and you’ll be better off without your past weighing you down. I’ve been going along, trying to find a moment alone to tell you, you have to run. You can’t come with us back to the Playground or you might-”

He catches her fingertips as they drag down his cheek. She’s definitely left bloodstains on his face but he doesn’t even care. “You’ve been going along?”

She nods. “I couldn’t let them think I might warn you; you never would’ve had a chance-”

He’s about to tell her he knew, that it was part of his deal with Coulson in the first place, but movement catches his eye.

Bakshi’s got Jemma’s gun again. He’s still down, but he’s got enough strength to level it at her. “Traitor!” he snarls.

Grant moves on instinct. He grabs her shoulders, pulls, twists, puts his back between her and the threat. There’s no time to think about a counterattack or a better defense. All he’s got is one simple thought: he can’t lose her.

The gunshot is too loud to echo, it just fills up the space, puts cotton in Grant’s ears for a few seconds. When it clears, he’s still holding Jemma and the only pain he feels is from how tight her nails are digging into the back of his neck.

“Have I ever told you you’re way too much trouble?” Trip asks.

Grant looks up, then around. Trip’s coming in the doorway, and Bakshi’s-

Dead. Very dead. There’s no getting up from that headshot.

“Any of this yours?” Trip’s on the floor with them now, checking Jemma’s hands.

“No.” She looks to Grant and then scrambles to her feet. “We should go. I left Mike with-” Her eyes dart to Bakshi. “He’s alone. We need to get back to him. Grant can bring the stretcher.” From the heaviness in her words, Grant figures what she really means is he can make a break for it.

She pushes Trip towards the door, but he’s too big and too busy smiling to be easily moved.

“ _Or_ ,” he says, “I can bring the stretcher and be completely shocked when the two of you aren’t in Mike’s room with the others when I get there.”

Grant’s not proud of it, but he’s man enough to admit he gapes. So does Jemma.

Trip rolls his eyes at the both of them. “Gonzales is a dick. He doesn’t trust you-” he points to Grant- “or you.” He points to Jemma. “And while I don’t much care about what happens to you-” back to Grant- “I care about her. So it’s probably better for everyone if Simmons is somewhere that isn’t the Playground until Coulson gets things under control again.”

“Trip,” Jemma says.

“You stay safe. And you call me if he turns out to be a repeat asshole.”

She’s probably got a few arguments, but Trip pulls her into a hug before she can get them out.

“I’m trusting you,” he says to Grant over her head.

“I know,” Grant says.

“Not something you’ve done too well with in the past.”

Grant thinks of Texas. John. HYDRA. “I know.”

It’s not an apology. Grant’s not sorry for which side of the line he was standing on when the world fell apart. But it doesn’t look like Trip expects one.

“You screw it up this time, I will make you wish I let Coulson erase you.”

Remembering the icy fear that gripped him just minutes ago, Grant thinks he’ll wish so too.

Trip clasps his hand after he lets Jemma go. “Go,” he orders. “It won’t take long before the others get antsy waiting.”

Grant pulls out his gun - better safe than sorry - and offers Jemma his free hand. “Still time to go back. Gonzales might start to like you if I’m not around to corrupt you.”

She’s still too shaken and too sad about leaving to smile, but her lip twitches on one side. She’ll get there.

Of course Grant might not see it.

She turns away from him, dropping her bag as she goes and curling over it on the floor. “Here,” she says, producing - Grant laughs - Skye’s hula girl and passing it to Trip. “Give this to Skye. And tell Fitz I know what I’m doing. And tell Coulson and May I’m-” she looks over her shoulder at Grant. “Tell them I’m not sorry. Because what I’m doing isn’t wrong.”

She launches herself into Trip’s arms before he can argue. He holds her tight for exactly four seconds before pushing her away.

“Okay, jeez, you guys are way too long with the goodbyes. Go!”

Jemma shoulders her bag and grabs Grant’s hand. Hers is still cold, still shaky. It feels right.

They run.

 


	21. [undisclosed location] (epilogue)

The phone rings twice before the line’s picked up.

“Didn’t expect to hear from you so soon,” Coulson says, his voice low and echoing, like he’s stepped aside into an alcove to avoid being overheard.

“Thought I’d check in,” Grant says, his voice even lower than Coulson’s, “make sure there are no hard feelings.”

“You went AWOL mid-mission and took one of my agents with you.” There’s a definite thread of anger in Coulson’s tone, but it’s not as deep as it would’ve been a few days ago. The old man might just be warming up to him again.

Grant drops his chin to look at the head nestled at his hip. He brushes his fingers through her hair, enjoys the comfortable way she sighs in her sleep. There’s no shock or surprise, no sudden drive to snap back to wakefulness and defend herself. In their line of work, that says a lot.

“I didn’t take anybody, she came along.”

“Yeah,” Coulson says tightly, “I heard.”

Grant wonders just what exactly he heard. Did Trip tell him about his own suspicions that Jemma isn’t safe so long as Gonzales has power in SHIELD? Did he tell him about Bakshi and the shitstorm that turned into?

The echo drops out of Coulson’s voice. “You’ll take care of her though?”

Grant’s hand moves to her back, rests over the ugly bruise below her shoulder blades. He fucked up with Bakshi, let him get close, trusted him when he shouldn’t have. Whether Coulson knows about that or not, he’s probably afraid he’s putting Jemma in the same position.

But Grant learns from his mistakes; he won’t claim to be perfect, but he knows better now than to let his desire for revenge threaten Jemma. He may want to come at SHIELD sideways, make Gonzales and his people pay, but he won’t. He won’t even go after what’s left of HYDRA. Let sleeping dogs lie and all that, it’s not his problem anymore.

“I will,” he says, the soft promise meant more for Jemma than for Coulson.

“Good. Because if you don’t, I know a few people who will be lining up to make you regret it.”

Grant chuckles. He’s sure Coulson will be at the head of that line.

“Stay under the radar, keep out of sight.”

It’s such a rookie order that Grant’s gotta roll his eyes. “I know how to do my job.”

Coulson ignores the sarcasm. “And you know how to contact us if you get in trouble out there.”

Something warm and almost hopeful rolls through Grant. He couldn’t say exactly what it is, but it reminds him of the way he feels when Jemma smiles at him without a bit of fear or censure in her eyes. Whatever that is, it makes his voice a little shaky when he answers. “Yes, sir.”

“Give her our love,” Coulson adds quickly and the line goes dead.

Grant breathes out slow, trying to get a handle on his emotions.

Jemma shifts a little while he does, leaving him with an awkward mix of warm and cold depending on where she was and where she lands. “Who was that?”

He squeezes her shoulder. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you up.”

She lifts her head and then the rest of her to smile blearily at him. “Who was it?”

“Coulson. I wanted to check in, make sure he wasn’t gonna come after us.”

Her warm expression sobers. “He has bigger problems than a couple of escaped prisoners.”

He’s not sure how he feels about her counting herself as one of those. It’s good for him, means she’s got less reason to leave, but he doesn’t like the way it sours her mood. “Yeah,” he agrees since there’s nothing much else to say.

She worms her way under his arm, into his side, slips her own arm between his back and the pillows to hold him close. “So, do we have a plan or was getting me into bed as far as you got?”

He laughs, he’s gotta. For one, she says it so seriously. For another, getting her into bed is about all he’s done past getting them safely away from HYDRA and SHIELD. She was so tired from the fight and the double traumas of falling out of the sky and nearly being murdered that she wasn’t up for much beyond stripping down so he could check her for injuries.

“We’ve still got the quinjet,” he says. It’s cloaked on the roof of a building a couple blocks away. Not a great hiding place, but he’s half thinking of ditching it. “We could go to Europe. You could see your parents again.”

Her face twists. “Anyone who’s looking for me will be monitoring them.”

He doesn’t bother to argue what they both know is true. Whitehall had her parents watched 24/7 in hopes of catching her; there’s no way of knowing whether that’s still in effect.

He wraps his arm around her shoulders, careful to avoid the bruising from when Bakshi shoved her into those shelves. “Anywhere else you’d like to go?”

Her focus shifts. She’s still looking at him, but she’s a million miles away, working through ideas. Finally she smiles, a small, private little thing that gives him the idea she’s up to something. “I wouldn’t be adverse to doing a little bit of sightseeing.”

“But?” he prompts, knowing one’s coming from her tone.

“But,” she says slowly, “we can’t live like that forever. And, to be honest, most places either of us would like to go are likely to see us recognized.”

Fair enough. Former SHIELD operatives could be anywhere and any science-y places she’d want to see probably have former SciTech agents hanging around already.

“So where does that leave us?” he asks, figuring she’s already got the answer.

“You still have family,” she says, voice bright and careful all at once, “someone no one’s likely to be watching on account of them no longer technically existing.”

Shock washes over Grant, leaving behind a renewed awareness of the bone-deep ache that never quite leaves him. “How did you…?”

“Skye told me,” she says simply. “And you may have kept your search for your brother a secret from SHIELD, but HYDRA was well aware.”

“You accessed my file?”

“Technically Bakshi accessed it.” There’s more to that explanation, but she cuts off as her own words register with her.

He holds her a little tighter. Bakshi’s gonna be a weight on her mind for a long time to come. “You really wanna help me find Thomas?” he asks, hoping to pull her out of whatever dark thoughts have her shaking on every exhale.

“Well,” she says, her voice determinedly light, “it’s not like there’s anything better to do when one is on the run from the government and two warring spy agencies.”

That, he thinks, is just rude.

She shrieks when he rolls her under him.

“Is that so?” he asks, looming over her. “Nothing better to do?”

She bites her lip, but it does nothing to hide her eager grin. “Nothing at all.”

“We’ll see about that.”

He proves her wrong happily, and the next morning they set out for Boston.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks. Thanks for all your support and patience. <3


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